presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIEGO 

by 
FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


MR.   JOHN  C.   ROSE 


dono 

A 


JEROME  K.  JEROME'S  BOOKS. 


AUTHOR'S  EDITION. 


DIARY  OF  A  PILGRIMAGE 

(AND  SIX  ESS  A  KS). 

With  upwards  of  100  Illustrations  by  G.  G.  FKASER. 
izmo,  cloth,  $1.25  ;  paper,  400. 

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(TO  SA  Y  NOTHING  Of  THE  DOG). 

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ON    THE    STAGE— AND  OFF: 

THE  BRIEF  CAREER  OF  A  WOULD-BE 
ACTOR. 

i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00  ;  paper,  2$c. 

TOLD  AFTER  SUPPER. 

With  96  or  97  Illustrations  by  KENNETH  M.  SKEAPING. 
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IDLE   THOUGHTS    OF    AN 
IDLE  FELLOW. 

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STAGE-LAND. 

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ON  THE  STAGE-AND  OFF 


THE  BRIEF  CAREER  OF  A  WOULD-BE  ACTOR 


JEROME  K.  JEROME 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY   HOLT   AND   COMPANY 
1891 


AUTHOR'S  EDITION 


THE   MERSHON    COMPANY    PRESS, 
RAHWAY,   N.   J. 


PREFACE. 


In  penning  the  following  pages  I  have  endeavored  to  be 
truthful.  In  looking  back  upon  the  scenes  through  which 
I  passed,  I  have  sought  to  penetrate  the  veil  of  glamour 
Time  trails  behind  him  as  he  flies,  and  to  see  things  ex- 
actly as  they  were — to  see  the  rough  road  as  well  as  the 
smiling  landscape,  the  briers  and  brambles  as  well  as  the 
green  grass  and  the  waving  trees. 

Now,  however,  that  my  task  is  done,  and  duty  no  longer 
demands  that  memory  should  use  a  telescope,  the  mellow- 
ing haze  of  distance  resumes  its  sway,  and  the  Stage 
again  appears  the  fair,  enchanted  ground  that  I  once 
dreamt  it.  I  forget  the  shadows,  and  remember  but  the 
brightness.  The  hardships  that  I  suffered  seem  now  but 
picturesque  incidents  j  the  worry  only  pleasurable  excite- 
ment. 

/  think  of  the  Stage  as  of  a  lost  friend.  I  like  to 
dwell  upon  its  virtues  and  to  ignore  its  faults.  I  wish  to 
bury  in  oblivion  the  bad,  bold  villains  and  the  false- 
hearted knaves  who  played  a  part  thereon,  and  to  think 
only  of  the  gallant  heroes,  the  virtuous  maidens,  and  the 
good  old  men. 


iv  PREFACE. 

Let  the  bad  pass.  I  met  far  more  honest,  kindly  faces 
than  deceitful  ones,  and  I  prefer  to  remember  the  former. 
Plenty  of  honest,  kindly  hands  grasped  mine,  and  such  are 
the  hands  that  I  like  to  grip  again  in  thought.  Where 
the  owners  of  those  kindly  hands  and  faces  may  be  now  I 
do  not  know.  Years  have  passed  since  I  last  saw  them, 
and  the  sea  of  life  has  drifted  us  farther  and  farther 
apart.  But  wherever  on  that  sea  they  may  be  battling,  I 
call  to  them  from  here  a  fiicndly  greeting.  Hoping  that 
my  voice  may  reach  across  the  waves  that  roll  between  us, 
I  shout  to  them  and  their  prof  ession  a  hearty  and  sincere 
God  Speed. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I.  PAGE 

I  DETERMINE  TO  BECOME  AN  ACTOR        -  i 

CHAPTER   II. 
I  BECOME  AN  ACTOR  n 

CHAPTER   III. 
THROUGH  TEIE  STAGE  DOOR     -  -      25 

CHAPTER  IV. 
BEHIND  THE  SCENES  -  31 

CHAPTER  V. 
A  REHEARSAL  40 

CHAPTER  VI. 
SCENERY  AND  SUPERS  ....  57 

CHAPTER  VII. 
DRESSING  -  -      66 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
MY  "FIRST  DEBOO"  76 

CHAPTER   IX. 
BIRDS  OF  PREY 82 


Vl  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  X.  J>ACE 

I  BUY  A  BASKET  AND  Go  INTO  THE  PROVINCES  96 

CHAPTER  XI. 
FIRST  PROVINCIAL  EXPERIENCES  106 

CHAPTER   XII. 
"MAD  MAT"  TAKES  ADVANTAGE  OF  AN  OPPORTUNITY    in 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
LODGINGS  AND  LANDLADIES      -  116 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
WITH  A  STOCK  COMPANY  -  125 

CHAPTER  XV. 
REVENGE  ! 134 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
VIEWS  ON  ACTING  143 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
I  JOIN  A  "  FIT-UP"  -  153 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
MY  LAST  APPEARANCE  -        -     163 


ON  THE  STAGE-AND  OFF. 


CHAPTER  I. 
/  Determine  1o  Become  an  Actor. 

[HERE  comes  a  time  in  every  one's  life 
when  he  feels  he  was  born  to  be  an 
actor.  Something  within  him  tells 
him  that  he  is  the  coming  man,  and 
that  one  day  he  will  electrify  the  world.  Then 
he  burns  with  a  desire  to  show  them  how  the 
thing's  done,  and  to  draw  a  salary  of  three  hun- 
dred a  week. 

This  sort  of  thing  generally  takes  a  man  when 
he  is  about  nineteen,  and  lasts  till  he  is  nearly 
twenty.  But  he  doesn't  know  this  at  the  time. 
He  thinks  he  has  got  hold  of  an  inspiration  all  to 
himself — a  kind  of  solemn  "call,"  which  it  would 
be  wicked  to  disregard  ;  and  when  he  finds  that 
there  are  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his  immediate 
appearance  as  Hamlet  at  a  leading  West-end 
theater,  he  is  blighted. 

I  myself  caught  it  in  the  usual  course.  I  was 
at  the  theater  one  evening  to  see  Romeo  and  Juliet 


2  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

played,  when  it  suddenly  flashed  across  me  that 
that  was  my  vocation.  I  thought  all  acting  was 
making  love  in  tights  to  pretty  women,  and  I  de- 
termined to  devote  my  life  to  it.  When  I  com- 
municated my  heroic  resolution  to  my  friends, 
they  reasoned  with  me.  That  is,  they  called  me  a 
fool ;  and  then  said  that  they  had  always  thought 
me  a  sensible  fellow,  though  that  was  the  first  I 
had  ever  heard  of  it. 

But  I  was  not  to  be  turned  from  my  purpose. 

I  commenced  operations  by  studying  the  great 
British  dramatists.  I  was  practical  enough  to 
know  that  some  sort  of  preparation  was  neces- 
sary, and  I  thought  that,  for  a  beginning,  I  could 
not  do  better  than  this.  Accordingly,  I  read 
through  every  word  of  Shakespeare, — with  notes, 
which  made  it  still  more  unintelligible, — Ben 
Jonson,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Sheridan, 
Goldsmith,  and  Lord  Lytton.  This  brought  me 
into  a  state  of  mind  bordering  on  insanity.  An- 
other standard  dramatist,  and  I  should  have  gone 
raving  mad  :  of  that  I  feel  sure.  Thinking  that  a 
change  would  do  me  good,  I  went  in  for  farces 
and  burlesques,  but  found  them  more  depressing 
than  the  tragedies,  and  the  idea  then  began  to 
force  itself  upon  me  that,  taking  one  considera- 
tion with  another,  an  actor's  lot  would  not  be  a 
happy  one.  Just  when  I  was  getting  most  de- 
spondent, however,  I  came  across  a  little  book  on 
the  art  of  "making-up,"  and  this  resuscitated  me. 


/  DETERMINE  TO  BECOME  AN  ACTOR.          3 

I  suppose  the  love  of  "  making-up  "  is  inherent 
in  the  human  race.  I  remember  belonging,  when 
a  boy,  to  "  The  West  London  United  Concert 
and  Entertainment  Association."  We  used  to 
meet  once  a  week  for  the  purpose  of  regaling  our 
relations  with  original  songs  and  concertina  solos, 
and  on  these  occasions  we  regularly  burnt-corked 
our  hands  and  faces.  There  was  no  earthly  reason 
for  doing  so,  and  I  am  even  inclined  to  think  we 
should  have  made  our  friends  less  unhappy  if  we 
had  spared  them  this  extra  attraction.  None  of 
our  songs  had  the  slightest  reference  to  Dinah. 
We  didn't  even  ask  each  other  conundrum's; 
while,  as  for  the  jokes,  they  all  came  from  the 
audience.  And  yet  we  daubed  ourselves  black 
with  as  much  scrupulousness  as  if  it  had  been 
some  indispensable  religious  rite.  It  could  only 
have  been  vanity. 

"Making-up"  certainly  assists  the  actor  to  a 
very  great  degree.  At  least,  I  found  it  so  in  my 
case.  I  am  naturally  of  mild  and  gentle  ap- 
pearance, and,  at  that  time,  was  particularly  so. 
It  was  no  earthly  use  my  standing  in  front  of  the 
glass  and  trying  to  rehearse  the  part  of,  say,  a 
drunken  costermonger.  It  was  perfectly  impos- 
sible for  me  to  imagine  myself  the  character.  I 
am  ashamed  to  have  to  confess  it,  but  I  looked 
more  like  a  young  curate  than  a  drunken  coster- 
monger,  or  even  a  sober  one,  and  the  delusion 
could  not  be  sustained  fora  moment.  It  was  just 


4  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

the  same  when  I  tried  to  turn  myself  into  a  des- 
perate villain  ;  there  was  nothing  of  the  desperate 
villain  about  me.  I  might,  perhaps,  have  im- 
agined myself  going  for  a  walk  on  Sunday,  or  say- 
ing "bother  it,"  or  even  playing  ha'penny  nap, 
but  as  k>r  ill-treating  a  lovely  and  unprotected 
female,  or  murdering  my  grandfather,  the  thing 
was  absurd.  I  could  not  look  myself  in  the  face 
and  do  it.  It  was  outraging  every  law  of  La- 
vater.  My  fiercest  scowl  was  a  milk-and-watery 
accompaniment  to  my  bloodthirsty  speeches; 
and,  when  I  tried  to  smile  sardonically,  I  merely 
looked  imbecile. 

But  crape  hair  and  the  rouge  pot  changed  all 
this.  The  character  of  Hamlet  stood  revealed  to 
me  the  moment  that  I  put  on  false  eyebrows,  and 
made  my  cheeks  look  hollow.  With  a  sallow 
complexion,  dark  eyes,  and  long  hair,  I  was 
Romeo,  and,  until  I  washed  my  face,  loved  Juliet 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  my  female  cousins. 
Humor  came  quite  natural  when  I  had  a  red 
nose ;  and,  with  a  scrubby  black  beard,  I  felt  fit 
for  any  amount  of  crime. 

My  efforts  to  study  elocution,  however,  were 
not  so  successful.  I  have  the  misfortune  to 
possess  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  to 
have  a  morbid  dread  of  appearing  ridiculous.  My 
extreme  sensitiveness  on  this  point  would  have 
been  enough  to  prevent  my  ever  acting  well  under 
any  circumstances,  and,  as  it  was,  it  hampered 


/  DETERMINE  TO  BECOME  AN  ACTOR.          5 

and  thwarted  me  at  every  turn  :  not  only  on  the 
stage,  but  even  in  my  own  room,  with  the  door 
locked.  I  was  always  in  a  state  of  terror  lest  any 
one  should  overhear  me,  and  half  my  time  was 
taken  up  in  listening  on  one  side  of  the  key-hole, 
to  make  sure  that  no  one  was  listening  on  the 
other ;  while  the  slightest  creak  on  the  stairs  was 
sufficient  to  make  me  stop  short  in  the  middle  of 
a  passage,  and  commence  whistling  or  humming 
in  an  affectedly  careless  manner,  in  order  to  sug- 
gest the  idea  that  I  was  only  amusing  myself.  I 
tried  getting  up  early  and  going  to  Hampstead 
Heath,  but  it  was  no  good.  If  I  could  have  gone 
to  the  Desert  of  Sahara,  and  assured  myself,  by 
the  aid  of  a  powerful  telescope,  that  no  living 
creature  was  within  twenty  miles  of  me,  I  might 
have  come  out  strong,  but  not  else.  Any  con- 
fidence I  might  have  placed  in  Hampstead  Heath 
was  rudely  dissipated  on  the  very  second  morning 
of  my  visits.  Buoyed  up  by  the  belief  that  I  was 
far  from  every  vestige  of  the  madding  crowd,  I 
had  become  quite  reckless,  and,  having  just  de- 
livered, with  great  vigor,  the  oration  of  Antony 
over  the  body  of  Csesar,  I  was  about  starting  on 
something  else,  when  I  heard  a  loud  whisper 
come  from  some  furze  bushes  close  behind  me : 
"Ain't  it  proper,  Liza!  Joe,  you  run  and  tell 
'Melia  to  bring  Johnny." 

I  did  not  wait  for  Johnny.     I  left  that  spot  at 
the   rate  of  six  miles  an  hour.     When   I   got  to 


6  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

Camden  Town  I  looked  behind  me,  cautiously. 
No  crowd  appeared  to  be  following  me,  and  I  felt 
relieved,  but  I  did  not  practice  on  Hampstead 
Heath  again. 

After  about  two  months  of  this  kind  of  thing, 
I  was  satisfied  that  I  had  learned  all  that  could 
possibly  be  required,  and  that  I  was  ready  to 
"come  out."  But  here  the  question  very  natur- 
ally arose,  "  How  can  I  get  out?  "  My  first  idea 
was  to  write  to  one  of  the  leading  managers,  tell 
him  frankly  my  ambition,  and  state  my-abilities 
in  a  modest  but  a  straightforward  manner.  To 
this,  I  argued,  he  would  reply  by  requesting  me 
to  call  upon  him,  and  let  him  see  for  himself  what 
I  could  do.  I  should  then  go  to  the  theater  at 
the  time  appointed,  and  send  up  my  card.  He 
would  ask  me  into  his  private  room,  and,  after  a 
little  general  conversation  on  the  weather,  and 
the  latest  murder,  etc.,  etc.,  he  would  suggest  my 
rehearsing  some  short  scene  before  him  or  reciting 
one  or  two  speeches.  This  I  should  do  in  a  way 
that  would  quite  astonish  him,  and  he  would  en- 
gage me  on  the  spot  at  a  small  salary.  I  did  not 
expect  much  at  first,  but  fancied  that  five  or  six 
pounds  per  week  would  be  near  the  mark.  After 
that,  the  rest  would  be  easy.  I  should  go  on  for 
some  months,  perhaps  a  year,  without  making 
any  marked  sensation.  Then  my  opportunity 
would  come.  A  new  play  would  be  produced,  in 
which  there  would  be  some  minor  part,  not  con- 


/  DETERMINE  TO  BECOME  AN  ACTOR.  ^ 

sidered  of  any  importance,  but  which  in  my  hands 
(I  had  just  read  the  history  of  "  Lord  Dundreary," 
and  believed  every  word  of  it)  would  become  the 
great  thing  in  the  play,  and  the  talk  of  London. 

I  should  take  the  town  by  storm,  make  the 
fortune  of  my  manager,  and  be  the  leading  actor 
of  the  day.  I  used  to  dwell  on  the  picture  of 
the  night  when  I  should  first  startle  the  world. 
I  could  see  the  vast  house  before  me  with  its 
waves  of  wild,  excited  faces.  I  could  hear  their 
hoarse  roar  of  applause  ringing  in  my  ears.  Again 
and  again  I  bowed  before  them,  and  again  and 
again  the  cheers  burst  forth,  and  my  name  was 
shouted  with  waving  of  hats  and  with  bravos. 

I  did  not  write  to  a  manager,  though,  after  all. 
A  friend  who  knew  something  about  the  subject 
said  he  wouldn't  if  he  were  I,  and  I  didn't. 

I  asked  him  what  course  he  would  advise,  and 
he  said :  "  Go  to  an  agent,  and  tell  him  just  ex- 
actly what  you  want."  I  went  to  two  or  three 
agents,  and  told  them  all  just  exactly  what  I 
wanted,  and  they  were  equally  frank,  and  told  me 
just  exactly  what  they  wanted,  which,  speaking 
generally,  was  five  shillings  booking  fee,  to  begin 
with.  To  do  them  justice,  though,  I  must  say 
that  none  of  them  appeared  at  all  anxious  to  have 
me  ;  neither  did  they  hold  out  to  me  much  hope 
of  making  my  fortune.  I  believe  my  name  is  still 
down  in  the  books  of  most  of  the  agents — at 
least,  I  have  never  been  round  to  take  it  off — and 


8  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

I  expect  that  among  them  they  will  obtain  forme 
a  first-class  engagement  one  of  these  days,  when 
I  am  Bishop  of  London,  or  editor  of  a  society 
paper,  or  something  of  that  sort. 

It  was  not  for  want  of  worrying  that  they  did 
not  do  anything  for  me  then.  I  was  forever 
what  I  called  "waking  them  up,"  a  process  which 
consisted  of  studying  the  photos  in  the  outer 
office  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  being  requested 
to  call  again.  I  had  regular  days  for  performing 
this  duty,  on  the  mornings  of  which  I  would  say 
to  myself:  "  Well,  I  must  go  round,  and  wake 
those  agents  up  again  to-day."  When  I  had  said 
this,  I  felt  quite  important,  and  had  some  vague 
idea  that  I  was  overworking  myself.  If,  on  my 
way,  I  happened  to  meet  a  friend,  I  greeted  him 
with  "  Haven't  got  a  minute,  old  man.  I'm  just 
going  round  to  my  agents,"  and,  scarcely  stopping 
to  shake  hands,  would  rush  off,  leaving  him  with 
the  impression  that  I  had  been  telegraphed  for. 

But  I  never  succeeded  in  rousing  them  to  a  full 
sense  of  their  responsibilities,  and,  after  a  while, 
we  began  to  get  mutually  tired  of  one  another ; 
especially  as  about  this  time  I  managed  to  get 
hold  of  two  or  three  sham  agents, — or  rather,  they 
managed  to  get  hold  of  me, — who  were  much 
more  pleased  to  see  me.  One  of  these,  a  very 
promising  firm  (though  not  quite  so  good  at  per- 
forming), had  its  offices  then  in  Leicester  Square, 
and  consisted  of  two  partners,  one  of  whom,  how- 


/  DETERMINE  TO  BECOME  AN  ACTOR.          9 

ever,  was  always  in  the  country  on  important  busi- 
ness, and  could  never  be  seen.  I  remember  they 
got  four  pounds  out  of  me,  for  which  they  under- 
took, in  writing,  to  obtain  me  a  salaried  London 
engagement  before  the  expiration  of  a  month. 
Just  when  the  time  was  nearly  up,  however,  I 
received  a  long  and  sympathetic  letter  from  the 
mysterious  traveling  partner.  This  hitherto  rusti- 
cating individual  had,  it  appeared,  returned  to 
town  the  previous  day,  but  only  to  discover  a 
state  of  things  that  had  shocked  him  beyond  all 
expression.  His  partner,  the  one  to  whom  I  had 
paid  the  four  pounds,  besides  defrauding  nearly 
all  the  clients  by  taking  money  for  engagements 
which  he  had  no  possible  means  of  obtaining,  had 
robbed  him,  the  writer  of  the  letter,  of  upward  of 
seventy  pounds,  and  had  bolted,  no  one  knew 
whither.  My  present  correspondent  expressed 
himself  deeply  grieved  at  my  having  been  so 
villainously  cheated,  and  hoped  I  would  join  him 
in  taking  proceedings  against  his  absconding 
partner — when  found.  He  concluded  by  stating 
that  four  pounds  was  an  absurd  sum  to  charge 
for  obtaining  such  an  engagement  as  had  been 
held  out  to  me,  and  that  if  I  would  give  him  (who 
really  had  the  means  of  performing  his  promises) 
two  pounds,  he  would  get  me  one  in  a  week,  or 
ten  days  at  the  outside.  Would  I  call  and  see 
him  that  evening?  I  did  not  go  that  evening, 
but  J  went  the  first  thing  the  next  morning.  I 


10  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

then  found  the  door  locked,  and  a  notice  on  it  that 
all  letters  were  to  be  left  with  the  housekeeper. 
Coming  downstairs,  I  met  a  man  coming  up,  and 
asked  him  if  he  knew  where  either  of  the  partners 
could  be  found.  He  said  that  he  would  give  a 
sovereign  to  know,  and  that  he  was  the  landlord. 
I  heard  of  the  firm  again  the  other  day,  and  I 
believe  it  is  still  flourishing,  though  with  the  cus- 
tomary monthly  change  as  to  name  and  address. 
By  the  by,  I  wonder  if  the  agent  nuisance  will 
ever  be  stamped  out.  Perhaps,  now  that  educa- 
tion is  compulsory,  the  next  generation  of  actors 
and  managers  may  be  able  to  look  after  their  own 
affairs,  and  so  dispense  with  the  interference  of 
these  meddlers  on  commission. 


. 

CHAPTER  II. 
/  Become  an  Actor. 

[MONG  the  sham  agents  must  be  classed 
the  "  Professors,"  or  "  X.  Y.  Z.'s,"  who 
are  always  "  able  to  place  two  or  three  " 
(never  more  than  two  or  three  :  it  would 
be  no  use  four  applying)  "  lady  and  gentlemen 
amateurs,  of  tall  or  medium  stature,  either  dark 
or  fair,  but  must  be  of  good  appearance,  at  a 
leading  West-end  theater,  in  good  parts:  Salaried 
engagement."  These  gentlemen  are  appreciative, 
and  very  quick  to  discern  real  talent.  They  per- 
ceived mine  in  a  moment.  They  were  all  of  them 
sure  that  I  should  make  a  splendid  actor,  and  I 
was  just  the  man  they  wanted.  But  they  were 
conscientious.  They  scorned  to  hide  the  truth, 
and  told  me  of  my  faults  without  reserve.  They 
said  that  I  was  full  of  promise,  that  I  had  the 
makings  of  a  really  great  actor  in  me,  but — and 
the  remarkable  part  of  it  was  that  no  two  of  them 
agreed  as  to  that  "but."  One  said  it  was  my 
voice.  All  that  I  wanted  was  to  train  my  voice ; 
then  I  should  be  perfect.  Another  thought  my 
voice  was  a  very  fine  one,  but  told  me  that  my 


12  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

attitudes  would  not  do  at  all.  When  my  attitudes 
were  a  little  more  artistic,  he  could  get  me  an  en- 
gagement at  once.  A  third,  after  hearing  me  re- 
cite a  trifle  or  two  from  MacbetJi,  clapped  me  on 
the  shoulder,  and  insisted  on  shaking  hands. 
There  were  tears  almost  in  his  eyes,  and  he  ap- 
peared quite  overcome.  He  said  : 

"My  boy,  you  have  got  it  in  you.  You  are  an 
actor!  but — you  want  chic." 

I  had  not  got  the  slightest  notion  what  he 
meant.  I  said: 

"You  think  so." 

He  was  sure  of  it.  It  would  be  impossible  for 
me  to  succeed  without  chic  :  with  chic,  I  should 
soon  be  famous.  I  determined,  at  any  price,  to 
get  chic,  and  I  deferentially  put  it  to  him,  how 
he  thought  I  could  obtain  it.  He  paused  for  a 
minute  or  so,  evidently  considering  how  it  could 
be  done,  while  I  stood  anxiously  awaiting  the 
result.  Suddenly  a  bright  idea  seemed  to  strike 
him.  He  laid  his  hand  confidentially  on  my  arm, 
and  in  the  impressive  voice  of  a  man  who  is  com- 
municating some  extraordinary  discovery,  said: 

"  Come  to  me,  twice  a  week,  Tuesdays  and 
Fridays,  say,  from  eight  to  nine."  Then  he  drew 
back  a  few  paces  to  see  what  effect  it  had  upon 
me. 

I  replied  that  I  supposed  he  meant  he  would 
teach  it  me.  He  seemed  struck  with  my  intelli- 
gence, and  acknowledged  that  that  was  just  pre- 


/  BECOME  AN  ACTOR.  13 

cisely  what  he  did  mean.  He  explained — always 
in  the  same  strictly  confidential  manner,  as  though 
he  would  not  for  the  world  have  any  one  else 
know — that  he  had  had  great  experience  in  this 
particular  branch  of  dramatic  education.  He  had 
letters  now  in  his  desk  from  well-known  actors 
and  actresses,  persons  of  the  greatest  eminence, 
acknowledging  that  they  owed  their  present  po- 
sition entirely  to  his  teaching,  and  thanking  him 
for  all  that  he  had  done  for  them.  He  would 
show  me  those  letters,  and  he  rose  to  do  so.  But 
no,  on  second  thoughts  he  would  not;  they  were 
written  in  confidence,  and  it  would  not  be  right 
for  him  to  let  others  see  them — not  even  me, 
whom  he  felt  he  could  trust.  To  do  him  justice, 
he  never  did  show  those  letters,  either  to  me,  or, 
as  far  as  I  could  learn,  to  any  one  else,  though  I 
subsequently  came  across  three  or  four  people 
who  expressed  an  earnest  desire  to  see  them. 

But  I  was  slowly  and  painfully  gaining  experi- 
ence, and  I  went  away  without  leaving  the  five- 
pound  note  which  I — "as  a  man  of  business" — 
ought  to  have  seen  was  an  absurdly  small  amount, 
his  usual  charge  being  twenty  guineas ;  only, 
somehow  or  other,  he  had  taken  an  interest  in 
me,  and  felt  sure  I  should  reflect  credit  on  his 
teaching,  and  so  make  it  up  to  him  in  that  way. 

Another  class  that  make  a  very  good  thing  out 
of  stage-struck  asses,  are  the  "  managers  "  (?)  who 
have  vacancies  for  "  an  amateur  lady  and  gentle- 


14  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

man  in  a  specially  selected  company."  They  are 
men  who  evidently  believe  in  the  literal  truth  of 
Jaques's  opinion  as  to  all  men  and  women  being 
players,  for  they  put  raw  novices  into  the  leading 
parts  with  a  confidence  as  to  the  result  that  is 
simply  touching.  The  Thespian  aspirant,  who 
has  never  acted  out  of  his  own  back  parlor,  feels 
a  little  nervous,  though,  at  being  cast  forBanquo 
and  Colonel  Damas,  to  open  with  on  the  follow- 
ing Saturday.  He  cannot  quite  make  up  his 
mind  whether  a  mistake  has  been  made,  a  practi- 
cal joke  played  upon  him  for  the  amusement  of 
the  rest  of  the  company,  or  whether  it  is  that  the 
manager  is  really  an  intelligent  man,  who  knows 
ability  when  he  sees  it.  He  does  not  like  to 
speak  about  it,  lest  it  should  be  thought  he  was 
not  confident  of  his  own  powers — a  failing  of 
which  the  stage  tyro  is  not  usually  guilty.  Be- 
sides which,  the  parts  might  be  taken  from  him, 
and  this  he  by  no  means  desires,  although,  at  the 
same  time,  he  is  perfectly  sure  that  he  could  play 
every  other  character  in  the  piece  much  better.  I 
had  only  one  experience  of  the  sham  manager — 
at  least,  of  this  kind  of  sham  manager.  Unfortu- 
nately, there  are  other  kinds,  as  most  actors  know 
to  their  cost,  but  these  I  have  not  come  to  yet. 
No,  and  I  wish  I  had  never  gone  to  them,  either. 
There  were  about  half  a  dozen  of  us  noodles 
who  had  answered  one  advertisement,  and  we  met 
every  night  for  rehearsals  at  a  certain  house  in 


/  BECOME  AN  ACTOR,  15 

Newman  Street.  Three  or  four  well-known  pro- 
fessionals, who  were  then  starring  in  the  prov- 
inces, but  who  would  join  us  at  the  beginning  of 
the  next  week,  were  to  fill  the  chief  parts,  and 
we  were  to  start  for  Gravesend  immediately  after 
their  arrival.  I  had  been  engaged  at  a  weekly 
salary  of  one  pound  fifteen  shillings,  and  had  been 
cast  for  the  parts  of  Gilbert  Feathcrstone  in  Lost 
in  London,  and  the  King  in  Hamlet.  Everything 
went  smoothly ;  there  had  been  no  suggestion  of 
a  premium  or  anything  of  that  kind  ;  and  although 
I  had,  by  this  time,  grown  exceedingly  suspicious, 
I  began  to  think  that  this,  at  all  events,  was  not 
a  swindle.  But  I  soon  found  out  the  trick.  On 
the  fifth  night  of  the  rehearsals,  our  manager  was 
particularly  pleasant,  and  complimented  me  on 
what  he  called  my  really  original  reading  of  the 
parts.  During  the  pauses,  he  leant  familiarly  on 
my  shoulder,  and  discussed  the  piece  with  me. 
We  had  a  little  argument  about  the  part  of  the 
King.  He  differed  from  me,  at  first,  on  one  or 
two  points,  but  afterward  came  round  to  my  views, 
and  admitted  that  I  was  right.  Then  he  asked 
me  how  I  was  going  to  dress  the  part.  I  had 
thought  of  this,  even  before  I  had  studied  the 
words,  so  I  was  as  pat  as  could  be  on  the  subject, 
and  we  went  through  all  the  details,  and  arranged 
for  a  very  gorgeous  costume,  indeed.  He  did  not 
try  to  stint  me  in  the  least,  though  I  was  once  or 
twice  afraid  he  might  grumble  at  the  cost.  But 


1 6  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

no,  he  seemed  quite  as  anxious  as  I  was  that  the 
thing  should  be  done  in  good  style.  It  would  be 
a  little  expensive,  as  he  himself  said,  but  then, 
"  you  may  just  as  well  do  the  thing  properly,  while 
you  are  about  it,"  he  added,  and  I  agreed  with 
him.  He  went  on  to  reckon  up  the  amount.  He 
said  that  he  could  get  the  things  very  cheap — 
much  cheaper  than  any  one  else,  as  he  had  a 
friend  in  the  business,  who  would  let  him  have 
them  for  exactly  what  they  cost  to  make.  I  con- 
gratulated him  on  the  fact,  but  feeling  no  per- 
sonal interest  in  the  matter,  began  to  be  rather 
bored  by  his  impressiveness  on  the  subject.  After 
adding  it  all  up,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
nine  pounds  ought  to  cover  the  lot. 

"And  very  cheap,  too,"  said  he;'"  the  things 
will  be  good,  and  will  always  come  in  useful;" 
and  I  agreed  with  him  again,  and  remarked  that 
I  thought  they  would  be  well  worth  the  money ; 
but  wondering  what  on  earth  all  this  had  got  to 
do  with  me. 

Then  he  wanted  to  know  whether  I  would  pay 
the  money  that  evening,  or  bring  it  with  me  next 
time. 

"Me!  me  pay!"  I  exclaimed,  rendered  un- 
grammatical  by  surprise.  "What  for?" 

"What  for!  Why,  for  the  costume,"  replied 
he  ;  "you  can't  play  the  part  without,  and  if  you 
got  the  things  yourself,  you'd  have  to  pay  about 
four  pounds  more,  that's  all.  If  you  haven't  got 


/  /  BECOME  AN  ACTOR.  I? 

all  the  money  handy,"  he  continued  soothingly, 
"  let  me  have  as  much  as  you  can,  you  know, 
and  I'll  try  and  get  my  friend  to  trust  you  for  the 
rest." 

On  subsequent  inquiry  among  the  others,  I 
found  that  three  of  them  had  already  let  him 
have  about  five  pounds  each,  and  that  a  fourth 
intended  to  hand  him  over  four  pounds  ten  the 
following  night.  I  and  another  agreed  to  wait 
and  see.  We  did  not  see  much,  however.  We 
never  saw  the  well-known  professionals,  and,  after 
the  next  evening,  we  never  saw  our  manager 
again.  Those  who  had  paid  saw  less. 

I  now  thought  I  would  try  hunting  for  myself, 
without  the  aid  of  agents  or  advertisements.  I 
might  be  more  successful,  and  certainly  could  not 
be  less.  The  same  friend  that  had  recommended 
me  not  to  write  to  the  managers,  concurred  with 
me  in  this  view,  and  thought  I  could  not  do  bet- 
ter than  drop  in  occasionally  at  "  The  Occiden- 
tal "  ;  and  I  accordingly  so  dropped  in.  I  suppose 
there  is  no  actor  who  does  not  know  "  The  Occi- 
dental," though  it  does  try  to  hide  itself  down  a 
dark  court,  being,  no  doubt,  of  a  retiring  disposi- 
tion, like  the  rest  of  the  profession. 

I  found  the  company  there  genial  and  pleasant, 
and  without  any  objection  to  drinking  at  my  ex- 
pense. When,  however,  I  hinted  my  wish  to  join 
the  profession,  they  regarded  me  with  a  look  of 
the  most  profound  pity,  and  seemed  really  quite 


1 8  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

concerned.  They  shook  their  heads  gravely,  told 
me  their  own  experiences,  and  did  all  they  could 
to  dissuade  me  from  my  intention.  But  I  looked 
upon  them  as  selfish  fellows  who  wanted  to  keep 
young  talent  from  the  stage.  Even  if  their  ad- 
vice were  given  honestly,  I  argued,  it  was  no  use 
taking  any  notice  of  it.  Every  one  thinks  his 
own  calling  the  worst,  and  if  a  man  waited  to 
enter  a  profession  until  those  already  in  it  recom- 
mended him  to,  he  might  sit  and  twiddle  his 
thumbs  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  So  I  paid  no  at- 
tention to  their  warning,  but  continued  in  my 
course,  and,  at  length,  found  some  one  to  help  me. 
He  was  a  large,  flabby-looking  individual,  who 
seemed  to  live  on  Scotch  whisky  and  big  cigars, 
and  was  never  either  drunk  or  sober.  He  did 
not  smell  refreshing — a  fact  he  made  all  the  more 
impressive  by  breathing  very  hard,  right  into 
one's  face,  while  talking.  He  had  formerly  been 
a  country  manager,  but  how  he  earned  his  live- 
lihood now,  was  always  a  mystery  to  me,  as,  al- 
though he  rented  a  dirty  little  back  room  in  a 
street  leading  out  of  the  Strand,  and  called  it  his 
office,  he  never  did  anything  there  but  go  to 
sleep.  He  was,  however,  well  known  to  the 
theatrical  frequenters  of  "The  Occidental, "- 
better  known  than  respected,  as  I  afterward 
learnt, — while  he  himself  knew  everybody,  and  it 
appeared  to  me  that  he  was  just  the  very  man  I 
wanted.  At  first,  he  was  not  any  more  enthusias- 


I  BECOME  AN  ACTOR.  19 

tic  than  the  others,  but  my  mentioning  that  I  was 
prepared  to  pay  a  small  premium  in  order  to  ob- 
tain an  appearance,  set  him  pondering,  and, 
in  the  end,  he  didn't  see  why  it  could  not  be 
done.  When  I  stated  the  figure  I  was  ready  to 
give,  he  grew  more  hopeful  still,  and  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  couldbc  done.  He  did  not  even 
see  why  I  should  not  make  a  big  name,  if  I  only 
left  myself  entirely  in  his  hands. 

"  I  have  done  the  same  thing  for  other  people," 
said  he,  "  and  I  can  for  you,  if  I  like.  There  is 

— ,"  he  went  on,  getting  talkative  all  at  once, 
"  he  is  drawing  his  eighty  pounds  a  week  now. 
Well,  damn  it  all,  sir,  I  made  that  man — made 
him.  He'd  never  have  been  anything  more  than 
a  third-rate  provincial  actor,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 

me.  Then  look  at  -  — ,  at  the ,  I  knew  him 

when  he  was  having  twenty-two  shillings  a  week 
for  responsibles,  with  old  Joe  Clamp,  and  that 
only  when  he  could  get  it,  mind  you.  I  brought 
him  up  to  London,  started  him  at  the  Surrey, 
took  him  on  to  the  West-end,  and  worked  him  up 
to  what  he  is.  And  now,  when  he  passes  me  in 
his  brougham,  he  don't  know  me,"  and  my  new- 
found friend  heaved  a  sigh,  and  took  another  pull 
to  drown  his  grief  at  the  ingratitude  of  human 
nature. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  continued,  on  emerging  from  his 
grass,  "  I  made  those  men,  and  why  shouldn't  I 
make  you  ?  " 


20  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

As  I  could  not  show  any  reason  for  his  not  do- 
ing so,  he  determined  that  he  would  ;  although 
he  supposed  that  I  should  turn  out  just  the  same 
as  the  rest  of  them,  and  forget  him,  when  I  was 
at  the  top  of  the  tree.  But  I  assured  him  most 
solemnly  that  I  would  not,  and  that  I  should  be 
just  as  pleased  to  see  him,  when  I  was  a  great 
man,  as  I  was  then,  and  I  shook  hands  warmly 
with  him,  as  a  token  of  how  pleased  I  was  to  see 
him  then  ;  for  I  felt  really  grateful  to  him  for  the 
favors  he  was  going  to  bestow  on  me,  and  I  was 
quite  vexed  that  he  should  think  I  might  prove 
ungrateful,  and  neglect  him. 

When  I  saw  him  the  next  day,  he  told  me  he 
had  done  it.  He  had  arranged  an  engagement 
for  me  with  a  Surrey-side  manager,  to  whom  he 
would  introduce  me  to-morrow,  when  the  agree- 
ment could  be  signed,  and  everything  settled.  I 
was,  accordingly,  to  be  at  his  office  for  the  pur- 
pose at  eleven  o'clock  the  following  morning — and 
to  bring  the  money  with  me.  That  was  his  part- 
ing injunction. 

I  did  not  walk  back  to  my  lodgings,  I  skipped 
back.  I  burst  open  the  door,  and  went  up  the 
stairs  like  a  whirlwind  ;  but  I  was  too  excited  to 
stop  indoors.  I  went  and  had  dinner  at  a  first- 
class  restaurant,  the  bill  for  which  considerably 
lessened  my  slender  means.  "  Never  mind,"  I 
thought,  "  what  are  a  few  shillings,  when  I  shall 
soon  be  earning  my  hundreds  of  pounds!"  I 


/  BECOME  AN  ACTOR.  21 

went  to  the  theater,  but  I  don't  know  what 
theater  it  was,  or  what  was  the  play,  and  I  don't 
think  I  knew  at  the  time.  I  did  notice  the  act- 
ing a  little,  but  only  to  fancy  how  much  better  I 
could  play  each  part  myself.  I  wondered  how  I 
should  like  these  particular  actors  and  actresses, 
when  I  came  to  know  them.  I  thought  I  should 
rather  like  the  leading  lady,  and,  in  my  imagina- 
tion, sketched  out  the  details  of  a  most  desperate 
flirtation  with  her,  that  would  send  all  the  other 
actors  mad  with  jealousy.  Then  I  went  home  to 
bed,  and  lay  awake  all  night,  dreaming. 

I  got  up  at  seven  the  next  morning,  and  hur- 
ried over  my  breakfast,  so  as  to  be  in  time  for  the 
appointment  at  eleven.  I  think  I  looked  at  my 
watch  (I  wonder  where  that  watch  is  now  !)  at 
least  every  other  minute.  I  got  down  to  the 
Strand  a  little  before  ten,  and  wandered  up  and 
down  a  small  portion  of  it,  frightened  to  go  a 
stone's  throw  from  the  office,  and  yet  dreading  to 
go  too  near  it.  I  bought  a  new  pair  of  gloves. 
I  remember  they  were  salmon  color,  and  one  of 
them  split  as  I  was  trying  to  get  it  on,  so  I  carried 
it  crumpled  up  in  my  hand,  and  wore  the  other 
one.  When  it  got  within  twenty  minutes  of  the 
time,  I  turned  into  the  street  where  the  office 
was,  and  loitered  about  there,  with  an  uncom- 
fortable feeling,  that  every  one  living  in  it  knew 
what  I  had  come  about,  and  was  covertly  watch- 
ing me  from  behind  blinds  and  curtains.  It 


22  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

seemed  as  though  eleven  o'clock  never  would 
come,  but  Big  Ben  tolled  it  out  at  last,  and  I 
walked  to  the  door,  trying  to  look  as  if  I  had  just 
strolled  up. 

When  I  reached  the  office,  no  one  was  there, 
and  the  door  was  locked.  My  heart  sank  within 
me.  Had  the  whole  thing  been  a  cruel  hoax  ? 
Was  it  to  be  another  disappointment  ?  Had  the 
manager  been  murdered  ?  Had  the  theater 
been  burned  down?  Why  were  they  not  here? 
Something  extraordinary  must  have  happened  to 
make  them  late  on  such  an  important  occasion  as 
this.  I  spent  half  an  hour  of  intense  suspense 
and  then  they  arrived'.  They  hoped  they  had 
not  kept  me  waiting,  and  I  replied,  "  Oh  no,  not 
at  all,"  and  murmured  something  about  having 
only  just  come  myself. 

As  soon  as  we  all  three  were  inside  the  little 
office,  I  was  introduced  to  the  manager,  who 
turned  out  to  be  an  actor  I  had  often  seen  on  the 
boards,  but  who  did  not  look  a  bit  like  himself, 
though  he  would  have  done  very  well  for  his  own 
son  ;  he  was  so  much  shorter  and  younger  than 
he  ought  to  have  been.  The  clean-shaven  face 
gives  actors  such  a  youthful  appearance.  It  was 
difficult  to  believe,  at  first,  that  the  sedate-look- 
ing boys  I  used  to  meet  at  rehearsal,  were  middle- 
aged  men  with  families,  some  of  them. 

Altogether,  my  future  manager  did  not  realize 
my  expectations  of  him.  He  was  not  dressed  with 


/  BECOME  AN  ACTOR.  23 

that  reckless  disregard  for  expense  that  I  had 
looked  for  in  a  man  of  his  position.  To  tell  the 
truth,  he  presented  a  very  seedy  figure,  indeed.  I 
put  it  down,  however,  to  that  contempt  for  out- 
ward appearance,  so  often  manifested  by  men  of 
great  wealth,  and  called  to  mind  stories  of  mil- 
lionaires who  had  gone  about  almost  in  rags  ;  and 
I  remembered,  too,  how  I  had  once  seen  the 
mother  of  one  of  our  leading  burlesque  actresses, 
and  how  I  had  been  surprised  at  her  extreme 
dinginess — the  mother's. 

They  had  the  agreements  all  ready,  and  the 
manager  and  I  signed  in  each  other's  presence, 
and  exchanged.  Then  I  handed  him  a  ten-pound 
bank  note,  and  he  gave  me  a  receipt  for  it. 
Everything  was  strictly  formal.  The  agreement, 
especially,  was  very  plain  and  precise,  and  there 
could  be  no  mistake  about  it.  It  arranged  for  me 
to  give  my  services  for  the  first  month  gratis,  and 
after  that  I  was  to  receive  a  salary  according  to 
ability.  This  seemed  to  me  very  fair,  indeed.  If 
anything,  it  was,  perhaps,  a  little  reckless  on  his 
part,  and  might  press  heavily  upon  him.  He 
told  me  candidly,  however,  that  he  did  not  think 
I  should  be  worth  more  than  thirty  shillings  a 
week  to  him  for  the  first  two  or  three  months 
though,  of  course,  it  would  depend  upon  myself 
entirely,  and  he  should  be  only  too  pleased  if  it, 
proved  otherwise.  I  held  a  different  opinion  on 
the  subject,  but  did  not  mention  it,  thinking  it 


24  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

would  be  better  to  wait  and  let  time  prove  it.  So 
I  merely  said  I  wished  for  nothing  but  what  was 
fair  and  just,  and  it  appearing  that  this  was 
exactly  what  he  wanted  me  to  have,  we  parted 
on  the  best  of  terms  ;  but  not  before  all  particu- 
lars had  been  arranged.  He  was  going  to  open 
for  the  summer  season  in  three  weeks'  time,  and 
the  rehearsals  were  to  commence  about  a  fort- 
night before.  For  the  next  week,  therefore,  I 
was  nothing  ;  after  that,  I  was  an  Actor! ! !  * 

*  My  friends  deny  this.     They  say  I  never  became  an  actor.     I 
say  I  did,  and  I  think  I  ought  to  know. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Through  the  Stage  Door. 

|T  was  not  until  about  a  week  before  the 
opening  night,  that  I  received  a  sum- 
mons to  attend  at  the  theater.  Eleven 
o'clock  was  the  time  appointed  for  "  the 
company  to  assemble  on  the  stage,"  and,  accord- 
ingly, at  a  few  minutes  before  that  hour,  I  stood 
in  front  of  the  stage-door. 

It  was  a  dingy-looking  place,  up  a  back  street, 
with  a  barber's  shop  on  one  side,  and  a  coal  shed 
on  the  other.  A  glorious  spring  sunshine  made 
it  look,  by  contrast,  still  more  uninviting,  and  I 
likened  it  to  the  entrance  to  the  enchanted  palace 
in  the  fairy  tales,  where  the  gloomier  the  portal 
through  which  the  prince  passes,  the  more  gor- 
geous the  halls  beyond.  This  was  before  I  had 
seen  the  inside. 

But  it  wouldn't  do  for  me  to  stop  there  medi- 
tating. It  was  already  two  minutes  past  eleven 
and  the  rest  of  the  company  would  be  waiting  for 
me.  I  laid  my  hand  upon  the  latch,  and — 

A  moment,  please.  Before  I  throw  open  that 
door,  and  let  daylight  in  upon  the  little  world  be- 


26  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

hind,  let  me  offer  a  word  or  two  of  preparatory 
explanation. 

The  theatrical  world  is  a  big  world.  From  one 
of  the  leading  London  theaters  to  a  traveling 
booth  (I  intend  no  slighting  allusion  to  our  tal- 
ented American  cousin)  is  a  wide  stretch,  and 
embraces  a  great  variety.  My  experience  was 
confined  to  three  or  four  of  these  varieties,  and 
by  no  means  extended  to  the  whole.  My  short 
career  was  passed  among  the  minor  London 
theaters,  and  second  and  third  rate  traveling  com- 
panies ;  and  it  is  of  these,  and  these  only,  that  I 
shall  speak.  But  of  these — of  what  came  under 
my  actual  observation,  that  is — I  shall  speak 
freely,  endeavoring  to  record  things  exactly  as  I 
found  them — nothing  extenuating,  nor  setting 
down  aught  in  malice.  It  may  be  that,  in  the 
course  of  my  comments,  I  shall  think  it  necessary 
to  make  a  few  more  or  less  sensible  and  original 
remarks  ;  to  tell  actors  and  actresses  what  they 
ought  to  do,  and  what  they  ought  not  to  do  ;  to 
explain  to  managers  how  they  ought  to  manage 
their  own  business  ;  and  to  give  good  advice  gen- 
erally all  round.  Therefore,  at  the  outset,  I  wish 
to  be  clearly  understood  that,  when  so  doing,  I 
have  in  mind  only  that  part  of  the  theatrical 
world  with  which  I  am  acquainted.  As  regards 
such  theaters  as,  for  example,  the  Lyceum  or  the 
St.  James's,  they  are  managed  quite  as  well,  per- 
haps, as  I  could  manage  them  myself,  and  I  have 


THROUGH  THE  STAGE  DOOR.  27 

no  fault  to  find  with  them.  Even  if  I  had,  I 
should  not  do  so  here,  for  in  these  reminiscences 
I  intend  to  talk  only  about  what  I  understand — 
an  eccentric  resolution  for  an  author,  I  admit; 
but  no  matter,  I  like  to  be  original  now  and  then. 
With  this  understanding,  we  will  push  back  the 
door  and  enter. 

I  fouiid  a  wheezy  little  old  man  inside,  boxed 
up  behind  a  glass  partition,  toasting  a  bloater 
before  a  small  fire.  On  that  morning,  I  felt  kindly 
disposed  toward  all  living  things,  and  I  therefore 
spoke  kindly,  even  to  this  poor  old  buffer.  I 
said  : 

"  Good-morning.     It's  a  fine  day." 

He  said,  "  Shut  the  door,  can't  yer  ;  or  else  get 
outside." 

Acting  on  this  suggestion,  I  shut  the  door,  and 
then  stood  leaning  against  it,  while  he  finished 
toasting  the  bloater.  When  I  saw  that  this  opera- 
tion was  completed  I  had  another  try  at  him.  I 

remarked  that  my  name  was .  Of  course,  I 

had  assumed  a  stage  name.  They  all  do  it. 
Heaven  only  knows  why ;  I  am  sure  they  don't. 
While  in  the  profession,  I  met  a  young  fellow 
whose  real  name  happened  to  be  the  very  one 
that  I  had  assumed,  while  he  had  taken  my 
real  name  for  his  assumed  one.  We  were  both 
happy  and  contented  enough,  until  we  met ;  but 
afterward  we  took  a  sadder  view  of  life,  with  all 
its  shams  and  vanities. 


28  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

As  the  mere  announcement  of  my  name  had  no 
visible  effect  upon  the  stage-door  keeper — for 
such  I  found  him  to  be — I  fired  my  last  shot,  and 
told  him  I  was  an  r.cCor.  It  roused  him.  It 
electrified  him  to  such  a  degree,  that  he  took  his 
gaze  off  the  bloater,  and  looked  at  me.  Having 
feasted  his  eyes  upon  me  to  his  full  satisfaction, 
he  said,  "  Down  the  yard,"  and  returned  to  what, 
I  suppose,  was  his  breakfast ;  there  being  a  dis- 
mal, just-got-up  sort  of  look  about  him. 

Gathering  from  this  that  there  was  a  yard 
somewhere  in  the  neighborhood,  and  that,  when 
I  had  found  it,  I  was  to  go  down  it,  I  started  off 
to  look  for  it.  I  discovered  it  at  last,  quite  un- 
expectedly, by  the  process  of  stumbling  over  a 
friendly  cat,  and  bursting  open  a  door  with  my 
head.  The  moment  I  got  into  it,  I  was  surrounded 
by  at  least  half  a  dozen  of  the  feline  species. 
They  looked  hungry,  and  welcomed  me  with  en- 
thusiasm, under  an  absurd  idea  that  I  was  the 
cat's  meat  man,  whom  I  did  not  resemble  in  the 
least.  Cats  are  kept  at  theaters  to  keep  away  the 
rats,  but  sometimes  the  cats  themselves  become 
so  numerous  as  to  be  rather  more  .of  a  nuisance 
than  the  rats,  and  then  it  is  necessary  to  keep 
some  one  to  keep  away  the  cats.  They  take  a 
great  interest  in  the  drama,  these  cats.  They 
always  make  a  point  of  coming  on  in  the  middle 
of  the  most  pathetic  scenes,  when  they  take  the 
center  of  the  stage,  and  proceed  to  go  through 


THROUGH  THE  STAGE  DOOR.  29 

one  or  other  of  their  decidedly  peculiar  toilet 
exercises. 

Going  down  the  yard,  as  directed,  and  groping 
my  way  through  a  dark  passage  at  the  end,  I 
found  myself  in  a  vast,  gloomy  vault,  full  of  hol- 
low echoes,  and  strange,  shapeless  shadows ;  at 
least,  that  is  what  it  seemed  to  me. 

I  cannot  say,  now,  what  notions  I  had  previ- 
ously formed  of  "  behind  the  scenes."  They  were 
dispelled  so  rudely  and  suddenly,  that  all  trace  of 
them  Is  lost.  I  know  they  were  formed  ;  partly 
by  Dower  Wilson's  charming  sketches,  where  fairy 
damsels  (in  the  costume  of  their  country)  lean 
gracefully  against  the  back  of  the  landscapes,  with 
their  pretty  legs  crossed ;  partly  by  the  descrip- 
tions of  friends  who  said  they  had  been  there  ; 
and  partly  from  my  own  imagination — a  vivid 
one.  The  reality,  however,  exceeded  my  wildest 
expectations.  I  could  never  have  dreamt  of  any- 
thing so  utterly  dismal,  as  an  empty  theater  by 
daylight,  or  rather  day-darkness.  No,  not  even 
after  a  supper  of  beefsteaks  and  porter. 

At  first,  I  could  see  nothing;  but,  after  a  while, 
I  got  used  to  the  dimness,  and  was  able  to  look 
about  me.  The  decorations  of  the  place  (such  as 
they  were — such  as  might  be  expected  in  a  theater 
where  the  stalls  were  three  shillings,  and  the  gal- 
lery fourpence)  were  shrouded  in  dirty  white 
cloths.  The  music  stools  and  stands  in  the  or- 
chestra, together  with  the  big  drum,  and  the  vio- 


3<>  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

loncello  in  a  green  baize  case,  were  all  in  a  heap 
in  the  corner,  as  if  they  had  had  a  performance 
on  their  own  account  during  the  night,  and  had 
ended  up  by  getting  drunk.  This  idea  was  fur- 
ther suggested  by  the  appearance  of  the  gallery 
bar,  which  could  be  seen  from  the  stage,  though 
it  looked  about  half  a  mile  off,  and  which  was 
crowded  with  empty  bottles  and  dirty  pewter  pots 
and  glasses.  Shabby,  patched  scenery — a  mere 
unintelligible  daub,  seen  close  to — was  littered 
all  round  me;  propped  up  against  the  great 
wooden  beams  which  supported  the  flies,  or 
against  the  side  walls  ;  piled  up  at  the  back,  in 
what  was  called  the  "scene  dock";  lying  down 
flat  at  my  feet ;  or  hanging  suspended  over  my 
head.  In  the  center  of  the  stage  was  a  rickety 
table,  and  on  the  table  was  a  candle,  stuck  in  a 
ginger-beer  bottle.  A  solitary  sunbeam,  having 
sneaked  in  through  some  odd  crevice,  threw  a 
band  of  light  across  the  gloom,  and  showed  up 
the  dust,  of  which  the  place  seemed  full.  A  wo- 
man, with  a  noisy  cold  in  her  head,  was  sweeping 
out  the  pit ;  and  some  unseen  animal,  which  I 
judged  to  be  a  small  boy,  by  the  noise  it  made, 
was  performing  a  shrill  whistle  somewhere  in  the 
region  of  the  dress  circle.  The  roar  from  the 
streets  sounded  dull  and  muffled,  but  the  banging 
of  a  door,  or  the  falling  of  a  chair  within  the 
building,  made  such  a  noise,  that  the  spiders  ran 
into  their  holes  for  fright. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
Behind  the  Scenes. 

HAD  the  stage  all  to  myself  for  about 
half  an  hour.  It  is  the  etiquette  of  the 
theater  for  every  one  to  be  late.  You 
estimate  the  position  of  an  actor,  by  the 
time  he  is  late  for  rehearsal.  If  he  (I  don't  say 
a  word  about  ladies :  they  are  always  an  hour 
late  for  everything,  bless  'em)  is  twenty  minutes 
behind,  he  is  most  likely  mere  utility.  If  a  man 
keeps  everybody  waiting  an  hour  and  a  half,  you 
may  put  him  down  as  a  star. 

I  occupied  the  time  pleasantly  enough  in  wan- 
dering about,  and  finding  out  all  I  could.  I 
climbed  up  a  shaky  wooden  staircase  to  the 
"flies,"  and  looked  down  upon  the  stage  from  a 
height  of  fifty  feet.  I  scrambled  about  up  there 
amidst  ladders,  and  small  platforms,  and  ropes, 
and  pulleys,  and  windlasses,  and  gas  pipes,  and 
empty  gas  bags,  and  beer  cans,  and  darkness,  and 
dust.  Then,  up  another  ladder,  leading  higher 
still,  and  along  a  narrow  plank,  crossing  from  one 
side  of  the  stage  to  the  other,  over  a  perfect 
hanging  forest  of  scenery. 

31 


32  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

Clambering  round  behind,  I  came  to  the  scene- 
painting  room.  It  was  a  long,  narrow  sort  of 
loft,  forty  feet  above  the  stage.  One  side  of  it 
was  of  canvas — part  of  an  enormous  sheet,  which 
passed  right  through  it,  in  at  the  top  and  out  at 
the  bottom.  This  sheet  of  canvas,  on  which  a 
scene  was  being  painted,  was  suspended  from  the 
roof  of  the  theater  by  means  of  pulleys,  so  that 
the  whole  could  be  raised  or  lowered  at  pleasure, 
and  every  portion  of  it  brought  within  reach  of 
the  scene-painter,  without  his  moving. 

If  I  have  not  explained  myself  clearly,  try  this  : 
Take  your  wife's  best  traveling  trunk  (choosing  a 
time  when  she  is  not 'at  home),  wrench  the  cover 
off,  and  then  hold  the  box  up  against  the  window 
blind,  in  such  a  position  that  the  blind  is  where 
the  cover  would  have  been.  There  you  have  it. 
The  box  is  the  scene-painter's  room — the  blind, 
the  scene. 

There  was  plenty  of  light  and  color  (the  latter 
in  buckets)  in  the  room,  but  very  little  else.  A 
long,  deal  table,  crowded  with  brushes  and  paint 
pots,  ran  nearly  the  whole  length  of  it.  The 
scene-painter's  palette,  a  marble  slab  about  six 
feet  square,  lay  on  the  floor,  and,  near  it,  one  of 
the  brushes  with  which  the  sky  had  been  laid  on. 
This  brush  was  the  size  of  an  ordinary  carpet 
broom.  Noting  these  things,  I  left  the  studio, 
and  descended. 

A  little   lower  down  was  the  wardrobe  room. 


BEHIND    THE   SCENES.  33 

There  was  not  much  in  it  though.  Dresses  are 
borrowed  as  they  are  wanted,  now,  from  the  cos- 
tumiers round  Covent  Garden  and  DruryLane; 
everything  being  found  for  so  much  a  week. 
Years  ago,  I  believe,  each  theater  used  to  make, 
and  keep,  its  own  costumes.  Even  now,  a  few 
old-fashioned  provincial  houses  have  a  substantial 
wardrobe  attached  to  them,  but  these  are  the  ex- 
ceptions, and,  as  a  rule,  little,  if  any  thing,  is 
kept  in  stock.  Here,  there  were  a  few  pairs  of 
very  loose  and  baggy-looking  tights,  half  a  dozen 
rusty  tin  helmets,  a  heap  of  buff  shoes  in  a  corner 
— half  of  them  right,  half  left,  sort  'em  as  you 
want  'em — some  natty  waistcoats — red  and  blue, 
with  a  dash  of  yellow ;  the  sort  of  thing  stage 
Yorkshiremen  wear  when  they  come  to  London, 
black  cloaks  for  any  one  who  might  wish  to  dis- 
semble, and  an  assortment  of  spangled  things. 
These  were  the  principal  items,  all  of  which  had 
seen  their  best  days. 

Between  the  yard  and  the  stage  was  a  very  big 
room,  containing  so  heterogeneous  a  collection  of 
articles  that  at  first  I  fancied  it  must  be  a  co- 
operative store  in  connection  with  the  theater. 
It  was,  however,  only  the  property  room,  the 
things  therein  being  properties,  or,  more  com- 
monly, "  props,"  so  called,  I  believe,  because  they 
help  to  support  the  drama.  I  will  give  you  some 
of  the  contents  of  the  room  haphazard  as  I  recol- 
lect them.  There  was  a  goodly  number  of  tin 


34  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

cups,  painted  black  up  to  within  half  an  inch  of 
the  rim,  so  as  to  give  them  the  appearance  of 
being  always  full.  It  is  from  these  vessels  that 
the  happy  peasantry  carouses,  and  the  comic 
army  get  helplessly  fuddled.  There  is  a  univer- 
sality about  them.  They  are  the  one  touch  of 
(stage)  nature  which  makes  the  whole  world  kin. 
They  are  used  alike  by  the  Esquimaux  and  the 
Hottenot.  The  Roman  soldiery  appear  never  to 
have  drunk  out  of  anything  else  ;  while,  without 
them,  the  French  Revolution  would  lose  its  chief 
characteristic.  Besides  these  common  cups,  there 
were  gold  and  silver  ones,  used  only  for  banquets, 
and  high-class  suicides.  There  were  bottles,  and 
glasses,  and  jugs,  and  decanters.  From  these 
aids  to  debauchery,  it  was  pleasant  to  turn  to  a 
cozy-looking  tea  service  on  a  tray  with  a  white 
table  cloth  :  there  was  a  soothing  suggestion  of 
muffins  and  domestic  bliss  about  it.  There  was 
plenty  of  furniture,  a  couple  of  tables,  a  bedstead, 
a  dresser,  a  sofa,  chairs — half  dozen  of  them,  high- 
backed  ones,  for  "  hall  in  the  old  Grange,"  etc.  ; 
they  were  made  by  fixing  pasteboard  backs  on  to 
ordinary  cane  chairs.  The  result  was  that  they 
were  top  heavy,  and  went  over  at  the  slightest 
touch;  so  that  picking  them  up,  and  trying  to 
make  them  stand,  formed  the  chief  business  of 
the  scenes  in  which  they  were  used. 

I  remember  the  first  time  our  light  comedy  at- 
tempted  to   sit   down   on   one   of   these  chairs. 


BEHIND    THE  SCENES.  35 

It  was  on  the  opening  night.  He  had  just  said 
something  funny,  and,  having  said  it,  sat  down, 
crossed  his  legs,  and  threw  himself  back,  with  all 
that  easy,  negligent  grace  so  peculiarly  his  own. 
Legs  were  the  only  things  that  could  be  seen  for 
the  next  few  minutes. 

Other  "  props  "  were,  a  throne,  gorgeous  in  gilt 
paper  and  glazed  calico  ;  a  fire-grate,  stuffed  with 
red  tinfoil;  a  mirror,  made  with  silver  paper;  a 
bunch  of  jailer's  keys;  handcuffs;  leg  irons;  flat 
irons  ;  rifles  ;  brooms  ;  bayonets ;  picks  and  crow, 
bars  for  the  virtuously  infuriated  populace  ;  clay 
pipes  ;  daggers  made  of  wood  ;  stage  broadswords 
— there  is  no  need  to  describe  these,  everybody 
knows  them,  they  are  like  nothing  else  on  earth ; 
battle  axes ;  candlesticks ;  a  pound  or  two  of 
short  dips  ;  a  crown,  set  with  diamonds  and  rubies 
each  as  big  as  a  duck's  egg  ;  a  cradle — empty,  an 
affecting  sight ;  carpets,  kettles,  and  pots ;  a 
stretcher ;  a  chariot ;  a  bunch  of  carrots  ;  a  coster- 
monger's  barrow;  banners  ;  a  leg  of  mutton,  and 
a  baby.  Everything,  in  short,  that  could  possibly 
be  wanted,  either  in  a  palace  or  a  garret,  a  farm- 
yard or  a  battle-field. 

Still  wandering  about,  I  came  across  a  hole  in 
the  floor  at  the  side  of  the  stage,  and  groped  my 
way  down  a  ladder  to  the  region  beneath,  where 
the  fairies  come  from,  and  the  demons  go  to.  It 
was  perfectly  dark,  and  I  could  see  nothing.  It 
smelt  very  moldy,  and  seemed  to  be  full  of  cun- 


36  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

ning  contrivances  for  barking  your  shins.  After 
bumping  myself  about  a  good  deal  there,  I  was 
glad  to  find  my  way  out  again,  deferring  all 
further  investigations  to  some  future  period,  with 
a  candle. 

On  emerging,  I  saw  that  the  company  had  at 
last  begun  to  arrive.  A  tall,  solemn-looking  man 
was  pacing  the  stage,  and  him  I  greeted.  He  was 
the  stage  manager,  and  so  of  course  rather  surly. 
I  don't  know  why  stage  managers  are  always  surly, 
but  they  are. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  few  minutes,  there 
trotted  in  a  demure-looking  little  man,  who  turned 
out  to  be  our  "  first  low  comedy,"  and  veiy  good 
low  comedy  he  was,  too,  though,  from  his  wooden 
expression,  you  might  have  thought  him  as  desti- 
tute of  humor  as  the  librettist  of  a  comic  opera. 
Then  followed  the  heavy  man,  talking  in  a  very 
gruff  voice  to  a  good-looking  young  fellow  with 
him,  who  played  the  juveniles  when  our  manager 
didn't  take  them  himself.  Then,  after  a  short 
interval,  a  lad)'' — an  old  queer-looking  little  lady, 
who  walked  with  a  stick,  and  complained  of 
rheumatism,  and  who,  as  soon  as  she  reached  the 
stage,  plumped  herself  down  on  the  thick  end  of 
a  mossy  bank,  from  which  nothing  would  induce 
her  to  rise  until  she  got  up  to  go  home.  She  was 
our  "old  woman."  She  did  the  doting  mothers 
and  the  comic  old  maids.  She  had  played  every- 
thing in  her  time,  and  could  play  anything  still. 


BEHIND    THE   SCENES.  37 

She  would  have  taken  Juliet,  or  Juliet's  nurse, 
whichever  you  liked,  and  have  done  both  of  them 
well.  She  would  have  been  ten  minutes  making 
up  for  Juliet,  and  then,  sitting  in  the  middle  of 
the  pit,  you  would  have  put  her  down  for  twenty. 
The  next  to  appear  was  a  gentleman  ("  walk- 
ing") in  a  fur-trimmed  overcoat,  patent-leather 
boots  and  white  gaiters  and  lavender  kid  gloves. 
He  carried  a  silver-headed  cane  in  his  hand,  a 
glass  in  his  left  eye,  a  cigar  in  his  mouth  (put  out 
as  soon  as  he  got  to  the  stage,  of  course),  and  a 
small  nosegay  in  his  button-hole.  His  salary  I 
subsequently  discovered  to  be  thirty  shillings  a 
week.  After  him  came  two  ladies  (not  with  any 
designs  upon  the  young  man:  merely  in  the  order 
of  time).  One  of  them  was  thin  and  pale,  with  a 
careworn  look  underneath  the  rouge,  just  as  if  she 
were  some  poor,  hard-working  woman,  with  a  large 
family  and  small  means,  instead  of  an  actress. 
The  other  was  fat,  fair,  and — forty,  if  she  was  a 
day.  She  was  gloriously  "  got  up,"  both  as  re- 
gards complexion  and  dress.  I  can't  describe  the 
latter,  because  I  never  can  tell  what  any  woman 
has  got  on.  I  only  know  she  conveyed  an  im- 
pression to  my  mind  of  being  stuck  out  all  round, 
and  thrown  out  in  front,  and  puffed  out  at  the 
back,  and  towering  up  at  the  top,  and  trailing 
away  behind,  and  all  to  such  a  degree,  that  she 
looked  four  times  her  natural  size.  As  everybody 
was  very  glad  indeed  to  see  her  and  welcomed 


38  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

her  with  what  seemed  to  be  irrepressible  joy, 
even  the  stage  manager  being  civil,  I  naturally 
concluded  that  she  was  the  embodiment  of  all 
the  virtues  known  to  human  kind.  The  whispered 
remarks  that  I  overheard,  however,  did  not  quite 
support  this  view,  and  I  was  at  a  loss  to  reconcile 
matters,  until  I  learned  that  she  was  the  mana- 
ger's wife.  She  was  the  leading  lady,  and  the 
characters  she  particularly  affected,  and  in  which 
she  was  affected,  were  the  girlish  heroines,  and 
the  children  who  die  young  and  go  to  heaven. 

The  rest  of  the  company  was  made  up  of  a 
couple  of  very  old  men,  and  a  middle-aged  stout 
one,  two  rather  pretty  girls,  evidently  possessed 
of  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  humor,  for  they  kept 
each  other  giggling  all  the  morning;  and  the 
manager  himself,  who  arrived  last,  and  was  less 
interested  in  the  proceedings  than  any  one  else. 
No  one  took  the  slightest  notice  of  me,  though  I 
purposely  stood  about  in  conspicuous  positions, 
and  I  felt  like  the  new  boy  at  school. 

When  everybody  had  arrived,  the  rickety  table 
was  brought  down  to  the  front,  and  a  bell  rung ; 
whereupon  a  small  boy  suddenly  appeared  for  the 
first  time,  and  was  given  the  "  parts  "  to  distrib- 
ute. It  was  a  manuscript  play,  though  well 
known  to  the  company,  nearly  all  of  whom  had 
played  in  it  plenty  of  times  before.  All  the  parts 
were  torn  and  greasy  except  one,  which  was 
prominently  clean.  When  the  boy  came  to  that 


BEHIND    THE   SCENES.  39 

one  he  seemed  puzzled,  not  knowing  to  whom  it 
belonged  ;  so  he  stood  in  the  center  of  the  stage 
and  bawled  out  the  name  on  it ;  and  as  it  was  my 
name,  and  I  had  to  claim  the  part,  I  was  at  once 
lifted  out  of  my  obscurity,  and  placed  in  an  op- 
posite extreme  hardly  more  comfortable. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  Rehearsal. 

HURRIEDLY  unfolded  the  paper,  to 
see  what  kind  of  a  part  I  had  got.  I 
was  anxious  to  begin  studying  it  im- 
mediately. I  had  to  form  my  concep- 
tion of  the  character,  learn  the  words  and  busi- 
ness, and  get  up  gesture  and  expression  all  in  one 
week.  No  time  was  therefore  to  be  lost.  I  give 
the  part  in  extenso  : 

Joe  Junks. 


Act  I.,  scene  i. 


comes  home. 


It's  a  rough  night. 

• if  he  does. 

Ay.  Ay. 

stand  back. 

(Together)  Tis  he  ! 

Fall  down  as  scene  closes  in. 

Act  IV.,  scene  2. 
On  with  rioters. 


A  REHEARSAL.  4* 

I  was  of  a  sanguine  disposition  at  that  time, 
but  I  didn't  exactly  see  how  I  was  going  to  make 
much  of  a  sensation  with  that.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  my  talents  were  being  thrown  away.  An  or- 
dinary actor  would  have  done  for  a  part  like 
that.  However,  if  they  chose  to  waste  me,  it  was 
more  their  misfortune  than  mine.  I  would  say 
nothing,  but  do  the  best  I  could  with  the  thing, 
and  throw  as  much  feeling  into  the  character  as 
it  would  hold.  In  truth,  I  ought  to  have  been 
very  proud  of  the  part,  for  I  found  out  later 
on  that  it  had  been  written  especially  for  me  by 
my  manager,  Our  low  comedy,  who  knew  the 
whole  piece  by  heart,  told  me  this.  Then  he 
added,  musingly:  "A  very  good  idea,  too,  of  the 
boss's.  I  always  said  the  first  act  wanted  strength- 
ening." 

At  last,  everybody  having  been  supplied  with 
his  or  her  part,  and  the  leader  of  the  band  having 
arrived,  the  rehearsal  really  commenced.  The 
play  was  one  of  the  regular  old-fashioned  melo- 
dramas, and  the  orchestra  had  all  its  work  cut 
out  to  keep  up  with  it.  Nearly  all  the  performers 
had  a  bar  of  music  to  bring  them  on  each  time, 
and  another  to  take  them  off ;  a  bar  when  they 
sat  down,  and  a  bar  when  they  got  up  again  ; 
while  it  took  a  small  overture  to  get  them  across 
the  stage.  As  for  the  leading  lady,  every  mortal 
thing  she  did  or  said,  from  remarking  that  the 
snow  was  cold,  in  the  first  act,  to  fancying  she 


42  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

saw  her  mother  and  then  dying,  in  the  last,  was 
preceded  by  a  regular  concert.  I  firmly  believe 
that  if,  while  on  the  stage,  she  had  shown  signs 
of  wanting  to  sneeze,  the  band  would  at  once 
have  struck  up  quick  music.  I  began  to  think, 
after  a  while,  that  it  must  be  an  opera,  and  to  be 
afraid  that  I  should  have  to  sing  my  part. 

The  first  scene  was  between  the  old  landlord  of 
an  old  inn,  some  village  gossips,  and  the  villain 
of  the  piece.  The  stage  manager  (who  played 
the  villain — naturally)  stood  in  the  center  of  the 
stage,  from  which  the  rest  of  the  company  had 
retired,  and,  from  there,  with  the  manuscript  in 
his  hand,  he  directed  the  proceedings. 

"  Now  then,  gentlemen,"  cried  he,  "  first  scene, 
please.  Hallett,  landlord,  Bilikins,  and  Junks  " 
(I  was  Junks),  "  up  stage,  right.  I  shall  be  here" 
(walking  across  and  stamping  his  foot  on  the  spot 
intended),  "  sitting  at  table.  All  discovered  at 
rise  of  curtain.  You  "  (turning  and  speaking  to 
me,  about  whom  he  had  evidently  been  in- 
structed), "  you,  Mr.  L.,  will  be  sitting  at  the  end, 
smoking  a  pipe.  Take  up  your  cues  sharply,  and 
mind  you,  speak  up  or  nobody  will  hear  you : 
this  is  a  big  house.  What  are  you  going  to  give 
us  for  an  overture,  Mr.  P.?"  (I  call  the  leader  of 
the  band  Mr.  P.).  "  Can  you  give  us  something 
old  English,  just  before  we  ring  up  ?  Thanks, 
do — has  a  good  effect.  Now  then,  please,  we  will 
begin.  Very  piano  all  through  this  scene,  Mr.  P., 


A  REHEARSAL.  43 

until  near  the  end.  I'll  tell  you  where,  when  we 
come  to  it." 

Then,  reading  from  our  parts,  we  commenced. 
The  speeches,  with  the  exception  of  the  very 
short  ones,  were  not  given  at  full  length.  The 
last  two  or  three  words,  forming  the  cues,  were 
clearly  spoken,  but  the  rest  was,  as  a  rule,  mum- 
bled through,  skipped  altogether,  or  else  repre- 
sented by  a  droning  "  er,  er,  er,"  interspersed 
with  occasional  disjointed  phrases.  A  scene  of 
any  length,  between  only  two  or  three  of  the 
characters, — and  there  were  many  such, — was  cut 
out  entirely,  and  gone  through  apart  by  the 
people  concerned.  Thus,  while  the  main  re- 
hearsal was  proceeding  in  the  center  of  the  stage, 
a  minor  one  was  generally  going  on  at  the  same 
time  in  some  quiet  corner — two  men  fighting  a 
duel  with  walking  sticks  ;  a  father  denouncing 
his  son,  and  turning  him  out  of  doors;  or  some 
dashing  young  gallant,  in  a  big  check  ulster, 
making  love  to  some  sweet  young  damsel,  whose 
little  boy,  aged  seven,  was  sitting  on  her  lap. 

I  waited  eagerly  for  my  cue,  not  knowing  when 
it  was  coming,  and,  in  my  anxiety,  made  two  or 
three  false  starts.  I  was  put  out  of  any  doubt 
about  it,  when  the  time  really  did  come,  by  a 
friendly  nod  from  the  gentleman  who  represented 
the  landlord,  and  thereupon  I  made  my  observa- 
tion as  to  the  dreadful  state  of  the  weather  in  a 
loud,  clear,  and  distinct  voice,  as  it  seemed  to  me. 


44  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

As,  however,  nobody  appeared  to  have  heard  me, 
and  as  they  were  evidently  waiting  for  me,  I  re- 
peated the  information  in  a  louder,  clearer,  and 
more  distinct  voice,  if  possible  ;  after  which  the 
stage  manager  spoke  and  said  : 

"  Now  then,  Mr.  L.,  come  along,  let's  have  it." 

I  explained  to  him  that  he  had  already  had  it, 
and  he  then  replied,  "  Oh,  that  will  never  do  at 
all.  You  must  speak  up  more  than  that.  Why, 
even  we  couldn't  hear  you  on  the  stage.  Bawl  it 
out.  Remember  this  is  a  large  place  ;  you're  not 
playing  in  a  back  drawing-room  now." 

I  thought  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  speak 
louder  than  I  had,  without  doing  myself  some 
serious  injury,  and  I  began  to  pity  the  gallery 
boys.  Any  one  never  having  attempted  to  speak 
in  a  large  public  building  would  hardly  imagine 
how  weak  and  insignificant  the  ordinary  conversa- 
tional tones  are,  even  at  their  loudest.  To  make 
your  voice  "  carry,"  you  have  to  throw  it  out,  in- 
stead of  letting  it  crawl  out  when  you  open  your 
mouth.  The  art  is  easily  acquired,  and,  by  it, 
you  are  able  to  make  your  very  whispers  heard. 

I  was  cautioned  to  look  to  this,  and  then  we 
went  on.  The  close  of  the  scene  was  a  bustling 
one,  and  the  stage  manager  explained  it  thus: 

"You  "  (the  landlord)  "put  the  lantern  close  to 
my  face,  when  you  say  '  'Tis  he  ! '  I  spring  up, 
throwing  down  the  table  "  (a  stamp  here,  to  em- 
phasize this).  "  I  knock  you  down.  You  two  try 


A  REHEARSAL.  45 

to  seize  me  ;  I  break  from  you,  and  throw  you 
down,  and  cross  center "  (doing  so).  "  I  gain 
door,  open  it,  and  stand  there,  pointing  revolver. 
You  all  cower  down."  We  were  squatting  on  our 
toes,  as  an  acknowledgment  of  having  been  all 
bowled  over  like  a  set  of  nine-pins — or  rather 
four-pins  in  our  case — and  we  now  further  bobbed 
our  heads,  to  show  that  we  did  cower. 

"  Picture,"  says  the  stage  manager  approvingly, 
as  drop  falls.  "  Hurried  music  all  through  that, 
Mr.  P.  Mind  you  all  keep  well  up  the  stage " 
("  up  "  the  stage  means  toward  the  back,  and 
"  down  "  the  stage,  consequently,  implies  near  the 
footlights),  "so  as  to  let  the  drop  come  down. 
What  front  drops  have  you  got  ?  Have  you  got 
an  interior?  We  want  a  cottage  interior."  This 
latter  was  spoken  to  a  stage  carpenter,  who  was 
dragging  some  flats  about.  Do  not  be  shocked, 
gentle  reader ;  a  stage  flat  is  a  piece  of  scenery. 
No  other  kind  of  flat  is  ever  seen  on  the  stage. 

"I  dunno/'  answered  the  man.  "Where's 
Jim?  Jim!" 

It  appeared  that  Jim  had  just  stepped  outside 
for  a  minute.  He  came  back  at  that  point,  how- 
ever, wiping  his  mouth,  and  greatly  indignant  at 
hearing  the  sound  of  his  own  name. 

"  All  right,  all  right,"  was  his  wrathful  comment, 
as  he  came  up  the  yard  ;  "  don't  sing  it;  he  ain't 
dead.  What  the  devil's  the  matter?  Is  the  'ouse 
a-fire?  You  never  go  out,  do  yer !  " 


46  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

Jim  was  the  head  carpenter,  and  was  a  sulky 
and  disagreeable  man,  even  for  a  stage  carpenter. 
When  he  wasn't  "just  stepped  outside  for  a  min- 
ute," he  was  quarreling  inside,  so  that  instead  of 
anybody's  objecting  to  his  frequent  temporary  re- 
tirements, his  absence  was  rather  welcomed.  He, 
in  common  with  all  stage  carpenters,  held  actors 
and  actresses  in  the  greatest  contempt,  as  people 
who  were  always  in  the  way,  and  without  whom 
the  play  would  get  on  much  better.  The  chief 
charm  about  him,  however,  was  his  dense  stu- 
pidity. This  trait  was  always  brought  into  par- 
ticular prominence  whenever  the  question  of  ar- 
ranging scenery  was  under  discussion. 

Fresh  scenery  is  a  very  great  rarity  at  the  minor 
theaters.  When  anything  very  special  is  pro- 
duced, and  an  unusually  long  run  is  expected,  say, 
of  a  month  or  six  weeks,  one  or  two  scenes  may, 
perhaps,  be  specially  painted,  but,  as  a  rule,  reli- 
ance is  placed  upon  the  scenery,  the  gradual 
growth  of  years,  already  in  stock,  which,  with  a 
little  alteration,  and  a  good  deal  of  make-shift, 
generally  does  duty  for  the  "  entirely  new  and 
elaborate  scenery"  so  minutely  described  in  the 
posters.  Of  course,  under  these  circumstances, 
slight  inconsistencies  must  be  put  up  with.  No- 
body objects  to  a  library  drop  representing  "  'tween 
decks  of  the  Sarah  Jane,"  or  to  a  back  parlor 
being  called  a  banqueting  hall.  This  is  to  be 
expected.  Our  stage  manager  was  not  a  narrow- 


A  REHEARSAL.  47 

minded  man  on  the  subject  of  accessories.  He 
would  have  said  nothing  about  such  things  as 
these.  He  himself  had,  on  the  occasion  of  one  of 
his  benefits,  played  Hamlet  with  nothing  but  one 
"interior"  and  "a  garden,"  and  he  had  been  a 
member  of  a  fit-up  company  that  traveled  with  a 
complete  Shakesperian  repertoire  and  four  set 
scenes ;  so  that  he  was  not  likely  to  be  too  ex- 
acting. But  even  he  used  to  be  staggered  at 
Jim's  ideas  of  mounting.  Jim's  notion  of  a  "  dis- 
tant view  of  Hampstead  Heath  by  moonlight," 
was  either  a  tropical  island,  or  the  back  of  an  old 
transformation  scene ;  and  for  any  place  in  Lon- 
don— no  matter  what,  whether  Whitechapel  or  St. 
James's  Park — he  invariably  suggested  a  highly 
realistic  representation  of  Waterloo  Bridge  in  a 
snow-storm. 

In  the  present  instance,  on  being  asked  for  the 
cottage  interior,  he  let  down  a  log  cabin,  with  a 
couple  of  bowie  knifes  and  revolvers  artistically 
arranged  over  the  fire-place ;  anticipating  any 
doubt  upon  the  subject  of  suitableness  by  an 
assurance  that  there  you  were,  and  you  couldn't 
do  better  than  that.  The  objection,  that  a  log 
cabin  with  bowie  knives  and  revolvers  over  the 
fire-place,  though  it  was  doubtless  a  common 
enough  object  in  the  Australian  bush  or  the  back- 
woods of  America,  was  never,  by  any  chance, 
found  in  England,  and  that  the  cottage  to  be 
represented  was  supposed  to  be  within  a  few 


48  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

miles  of  London,  he  considered  as  too  frivolous 
to  need  comment,  and  passed  it  over  in  silent 
contempt.  Further  argument  had  the  effect  of 
raising  up  Jim's  stock  authority,  a  certain  former 
lessee,  who  had  been  dead  these  fifteen  years, 
and  about  whom  nobody  else  but  Jim  seemed  to 
have  the  faintest  recollection.  It  appeared  that 
this  gentleman  had  always  used  the  log  cabin 
scene  for  English  cottages,  and  Jim  guessed  that 
he  (the  defunct  lessee)  knew  what  he  was  about, 
even  if  he  (Jim)  was  a  fool.  The  latter  of  Jim's 
suppositions  had  never  been  disputed,  and  it  was 
a  little  too  late  then  to  discuss  the  former.  All 
I  can  say  is,  that  if  Jim's  Mr.  Harris — as  this 
mysterious  managerxvas  generally  dubbed — really 
did  mount  his  productions  in  the  manner  af- 
firmed, their  effect  must  have  been  novel  in  the 
extreme. 

Nothing  could  induce  Jim  to  show  anything 
else  that  morning,  although  the  manager  re- 
minded him  of  a  cottage  scene  having  been  ex- 
pressly painted  for  the  last  lessee.  Jim  didn't 
know  where  it  was.  Besides,  one  of  the  ropes 
was  broken,  and  it  couldn't  be  got  at  then  ; 
after  which  little  brush  with  the  enemy,  he  walked 
away  and  took  up  a  row  with  the  gas  man  at  the 
very  point  where  he  had  dropped  it  twenty  min- 
utes before. 

Scenery  and  props  were  not  being  used  at  this, 
fhe  first  rehearsal,  the  chief  object  of  which  was 


A  REHEARSAL.  49 

merely  to  arrange  music,  entrances  and  exits,  and 
general  business;  but  of  course  it  was  desirable 
to  know  as  soon  as  possible  what  scenery  was 
available,  and  whether  it  required  any  altering  or 
repairing. 

In  the  second  scene  the  leading  lady  made  her 
first  appearance,  an  event  which  called  forth  all 
the  energies  of  the  orchestra.  It  would  not  do 
for  her  to  burst  upon  the  audience  all  at  once. 
Great  and  sudden  joy  is  dangerous.  They  must 
be  gradually  prepared  for  it.  Care  was  exercised 
that  the  crisis  should  be  well  led  up  to,  and  that 
she  should  appear  exactly  at  the  right  moment. 
When  all  was  satisfactorily  settled,  the  cue  was 
announced  to  her  by  the  stage  manager.  He 
said  it  was  "  Pom-pom — pom-pom — pom-pom — 
pom— POM— POM." 

"That's  your  cue,  my  dear." 

On  the  stage,  everybody  calls  the  actresses 
"  My  dear."  You  soon  pick  it  up,  especially  in 
the  case  of  the  young  and  pretty  ones. 

"Where  do  I  come  on  from?"  asked  the  lead- 
ing lady. 

"  I  can't  say,  my  dear,  until  I've  seen  the  drop. 
There'll  most  likely  be  a  door  in  it,  and  then  you 
can  come  on  from  the  back." 

Entrances  from  the  back,  it  may  be  remarked, 
are  the  favorite  ones.  Indeed,  some  artistes  will 
never  come  on  from  anywhere  else.  Of  course, 
you  make  a  much  better  impression  on  an  audi- 


5°  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

ence,  as  regards  first  appearance,  by  facing  them 
on  your  entrance  and  walking  straight  down  to- 
ward them,  than  by  coming  on  sideways  and  then 
turning  round.  Entrances  from  the  back,  how- 
ever, are  sometimes  carried  to  excess,  and  a  whole 
scene  is  rendered  unnatural  and  absurd,  merely  to 
gratify  personal  vanity. 

I  will  finish  what  I  have  to  say  about  this 
rehearsal  by  giving  a  verbatim  report  of  a  small 
part  of  it ;  viz.,  the  fourth  scene  of  the  first  act. 
The  actual  scene  is  this: 

•  STAGE  MANAGER,  standing  CENTER  with  his 
back  to  the  footlights.  Close  behind  him,  perched 
in  a  high  chair,  the  LEADER  OF  THE  BAND  solus, 
representing  the  orchestra  with  a  fiddle.  Two  or 
three  groups  of  artists,  cJiatting  at  the  wings. 
THE  HEAVY  M AN, pacing  up  and  doivn  at  the  back, 
conning  his  part  in  an  undertone,  and  occasionally 
stopping  to  suit  the  action  to  the  word.  Low 
COMEDY  and  WALKING  Gi^Wf  Agoing  through  scene 
by  themselves  in  L.  3.  E.  SINGING  CHAMBERMAID, 
flirting  with  JUVENILES  (only  one  of  them},  R.  2.  E. 
PROPERTY  MAN,  behind,  making  a  veal  and  ham 
pie  out  of  an  old  piece  of  canvas  and  a  handful  of 
shavings.  COUPLE  OF  CARPENTERS,  in  white 
jackets,  hovering  about  with  hammers  in  their 
hands  and  mischief  in  their  eyes,  evidently  on  the 
look-out  for  an  excuse  to  make  a  noise.  CALL  Bo Y 
all  over  the  place,  and  always  in  the  way — except 
when  wanted. 


A   REHEARSAL.  51 

OUR  FIRST  OLD  MAN  (standing  R.  c.,  and  read- 
ing his  part  by  the  aid  of  a  large  pair  of  specs). 
"  '  Er-er — wind  howls — er-er-er — night  as  this, 
fifteen  years  ago — er — sweet  child — er-r-r — stolen 
away — er-r-r — baby  prattle — er-ears — er-r — shall  I 
never  hear  her  voice  again  ?  " 

He  looks  up,  and  finding  that  nobody  makes  any 
sign  of  caring  a  hang  whether  he  does  or  not,  he 
repeats  the  question  louder. 

STAGE  MANAGER  (severely,  as  if  this  was  a 
question  that  really  must  be  answered}.  "  '  Shall  I 
never  hear  her  voice  again  ?'  Oh  !  that's  a  music 
cue,  Mr.  P.  Have  you  got  it  down?  Miss — 
(stage  name  of  the  manager  s  tvife}  "  sings  a  song 
there,  without." 

MR.  P.  "  No,  I'll  put  it  down  now.  What  is 
it — 'hear  her  voice  again  ?''  (Writes  on  some 
loose  slips  of  paper,  lying  before  him  on  the 
stage.} 

"  Have  you  the  music  ?  " 

STAGE  MAN.  "Oh,  anything  dismal  does. 
No  matter  what  it  is,  so  long  as  it  gives  'em  the 
hump.  What  will  you  have,  my  dear?" 

MANAGER'S  WIFE  (who  has  just  finished  a  social 
bottle  of  Bass  ivith  another  lady).  "  Oh,  the  old 
thing,  you  know.  '  Home,  sweet  home. 

JUVENILES  (in  a  whisper  to  Low  COM.).  "  Is 
she  going  to  sing  ?  " 

Low  COM.     "Yes,  always  does  it." 

JUVENILES.    "Oh,  my !" 


52  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

MAN.  WIFE  and  THE  FIDDLE  do  first  verse  of 
"Home,  szueet  home" 

FIRST  OLD  MAN.  '"Ah,  that  v®ice — er-er— 
echo  of  old  memories — er-er-er — houseless  wan- 
derer— dry  herself'1  (crossing  and  opening  an 
imaginary  door).  "  Poor  child — er-er-er — I'm  an 
old  man — er — my  wife's  out — return  and — er — 
the  homeless  orphan.'  ' 

MAN.  WIFE.  "  Will  there  be  any  lime-light  on 
here  ?  " 

FIRST  OLD  WOMAN  (sotto  voce}.  "  Oh,  let  her 
have  some  lime-light.  She  wants  to  let  her  back 
hair  down." 

STAGE  MAN.  "  Certainly,  my  dear.  There'll 
be  a  fire-place  in  this  corner,  and  red  lime-light 
from  it." 

MAN.  WIFE.  "  Oh,  all  right ;  I  only  wanted  to 
know.  Now,  what  was  it — '  homeless  orphan.' 
Oh,  that's  my  long  speech,  you  know:  '  Is  this  a 
dream  that  I  have  dreamt  before — played  here 
when  a  child.'  ' 

FIRST  O.  M.  "  '  Sweet  child — your  face  recalls 
strange  memories  of  er-er-er — been  just  your 
age.'" 

STAGE  MAN.  (interrupting).  "  Slow  music 
throughout." 

FIRST  O.  M.  (continuing).  "'Never  from  that 
night — er — golden — I  can't  believe  she's  dead." 

Scrape  from  the  fiddle,  followed  by  bar,  to  bring 
on  FIRST  OLD  WOMAN. 


A  REHEARSAL.  53 

FIRST  O.  W.  (^without  moving  from  her  seat,  and 
coming  straight  to  the  cue  with  a  suddenness  which 
startles  everybody).  "  '  Fold  you  to  my  breast.'  " 

M\N.  WIFE.  "  '  Mother ! ' — Got  the  rheumatism 
again  ?  " 

FIRST  O.  W.  "  Got  it  again  !  It's  never  gone 
yet,  drat  it — '  My  child  ! ' " 

Powerful  scrape  from  the  fiddle. 

FIRST  O.  M.     "  Where  am  I  ?" 

STAGE  MAN.    "  Left,  down  stage." 

MAN.  WIFE,  j"  We  embrace,  left  center.  Knock 
heard." 

STAGE   MAN.  (crossing  center).     "That's  me.* 
Keep  it  up  :  it's  a  picture.     You  and  Mrs.  — 
there,  embracing,  and  the  old   boy  down   in  the 
corner,  when  I  open  the  door. — Rain  and  wind 
for  this  scene,  mind." 

HOVERING  CARPENTER  (at  top  of  his  ifoice). 
"  Jim  !  wind  and  rain  for  last  scene  of  first  act." 

Husky  but  indignant  voice  from  the  flies,  express- 
ing an  earnest  desire  that  every  one  should  go  to  the 
devil. 

STAGE  MAN.  (ivho  always  rehearsed  his  speeches 
at  full  length,  and  in  a  tone  of  voice  as  if  he  were 
reciting  the  multiplication  table).  "  '  I  am  pur- 
sued. My  life  is  at  stake.  Hide  me  from  these 
bloodhounds  who  are  on  my  track.  Hark !  they 
are  here.  Thank  Heaven,  they  are  past.  I  am 

*  That  was  the  way  he  treated  Lindley  Murray.  We  were  inex- 
pressibly grieved  and  shocked — all  of  us — but  what  were  we  to  do  ? 


54  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

safe.  Ha,  who  is  this  we  have  here?  'Sdeath,  I 
am  in  luck  to-night.  Sir  Henry  will  thank  me, 
when  I  bring  his  strayed  lamb  back  to  him.  Come 
with  me,  my  little  runaway.'  Business.  '  Nay, 
resist  not,  or  'twill  be  the  worse  for  all.'  I  catch 
hold  of  you.  We  struggle.  '  Come,  I  say,  with 
me.  Come,  I  say.' ' 

FIRST  O.  W.     "  •  Die  together.'  " 
Scrape  from  1  he  fiddle. 

STAGE  MAN.  (loudly,  after  waiting  a  minute). 
"  'Die  together.'" 

FIRST  O.  M.  "  I  beg  pardon.  I  didn't  hear." 
(Fumbles  with  his  part,  and  loses  his  placed) 

MAN.  WIFE.  "  He  really  ought  to  use  an  ear- 
trumpet." 

FIRST  O.  M.  "  '  Er-r-r—  Heaven  will  give  me 
strength — er — can  strike  a  blow.'  "  (Shakes  his 
stick  at  STAGE  MANAGER.) 

Tremendous  hammering  suddenly  begun  at  back, 
eliciting  forcible  expressions  of  disapproval  from  all 
the  members  of  the  company,  with  the  exception  of 
the  FIRST  OLD  MAN,  who  doesnt  hear  it,  and  goes 
on  calmly  with  the  rehearsal  all  by  himself. 

STAGE  MAN.  (in  a  rage}.  "  Stop  that  noise  ! 
Stop  that  noise,  I  say  !  " 

Noise  continues. 

JIM  (eager  for  the  fray).  "  How  can  we  do  our 
work  without  noise,  I  should  like  to  know?" 

STAGE  MAN.  (crossly).  "Can't  you  do  it  at 
some  other  time  ?  " 


A   REHEARSAL.  55 

JlM  (angrily].  "  No,  we  can't  do  it  at  some 
other  time  !  Do  you  think  we're  here  all  night  ?  " 

STAGE  MAN.  (mildly).  "  But,  my  dear  fellow, 
how  can  we  go  on  with  the  rehearsal?" 

JlM  (in  a  rage},  "/don't  know  anything  about 
you  and  your  rehearsal!  That's  not  my  business, 
is  it  ?  I  do  my  own  work;  I  don't  do  other  peo- 
ple's work!  I  don't  want  to  be  told  how  to  do 
my  work  !  (Pours  forth  a  flood  of  impassioned 
eloquence  for  the  next  ten  minutes,  during  which 
time  the  hammering  is  also  continued.  Complete 
collapse  of  STAGE  MANAGER,  and  suspension  of 
rehearsal.  Subsequent  dry  ness  on  the  part  0/"JlM.) 

MAN.  WIFE  (when  rehearsal  is  at  last  resumed}. 
"  Just  try  back  that  last  bit,  will  you,  for  posi- 
tions?" 

The  last  two  or  three  movements  gone  over  again. 
Then : 

STAGE  MAN.  "  We  all  three  struggle  toward 
door.  '  Stand  back,  old  man  !  I  do  not  wish  to 
harm  thee!' — I  push  you  aside.  '  Back,  or  it  will 
be  murder!' — This  must  be  well  worked  up. 
'Who  dares  to  stay  me?"  (to  Low  COMEDY). 
"  There'll  be  a  bar  to  bring  you  on.  You  know 
the  business." 

Low  COM.  (coming  forward}.  "  '  Shure  and  / 
will.'  " 

Scrape  from  fiddle. 

STAGE  MAN.  "  Well  then  there's  our  strug- 
gle." (STAGE  MANAGER  and  Low  COMEDY  take 


5 6  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

hold  of  each  other  s  shoulders,  and  turn  round}. 
"  I'll  have  the  book  in  the  left-hand  side." 

Low  COM.  " '  Ah,  begorra,  shure  he's  clane 
gone  ;  but,  be  jabers,  I've  got  this  '  "  (holding  up 
an  imaginary  pocket-booK),  " '  and  it's  worth  a 
precious  deal  more  than  he  is.'  " 

STAGE  MAN.  "  End  of  first  act.— Tommy,  go 
and  fetch  me  half  a  pint  of  stout." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Scenery  and  Supers. 

|E  had  five  rehearsals  for  this  play. 

"  What  the  dickens  do  they  want 
with  so  many  ? "  was  the  indignant 
comment  of  the  First  Old  Woman. 
"  Why,  they'll  rehearse  it  more  times  than  they'll 
play  it." 

I  thought  five  a  ridiculously  small  number  at 
the  time,  especially  when  I  remembered  my  ama- 
teur days,  and  the  thirty  or  so  rehearsals,  nearly 
all  full-dressed  ones,  required  for  a  short  farce  ; 
but  there  came  a  time  when  I  looked  upon  two 
as  betokening  extraordinary  anxiety  about  a  pro- 
duction. In  the  provinces,  I  have  known  a  three- 
act  comedy  put  on  without  any  rehearsal  at  all, 
and  with  half  the  people  not  even  knowing  the 
patter.  "  Business  "  was  arranged  in  whispered 
consultations,  while  the  play  was  proceeding,  and 
when  things  got  into  a  more  than  usually  glorious 
muddle,  one  or  other  of  the  characters  would 
come  off  the  stage  and  have  a  look  at  the  book. 
As  for  the  prompter,  after  vainly  struggling  to 
keep  them  to  one  act  at  a  time,  and  to  dissuade 

57 


5§  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

the  hero  from  making  love  to  the  wrong  girl,  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  only  in  the 
way,  and  so  went  and  had  a  quiet  pipe  at  the 
stage-door,  and  refrained  from  worrying  himself 
further. 

The  rehearsals  got  more  ship-shape  as  we  went 
on.  At  the  fourth  every  one  was  supposed  to  be 
"  letter  perfect,"  and  "  parts  "  were  tabooed.  On 
this  occasion,  the  piece  was  played  straight 
through  with  nothing  omitted,  and  the  orchestra 
(two  riddles,  a  bass-viol,  cornet,  and  drum)  ap- 
peared in  full  force.  For  the  last  rehearsal,  props 
and  scenery  were  called.  We  had  an  exciting 
time  with  Jim,  over  the  scenery,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected. He  had  a  row  with  everybody,  and 
enjoyed  himself  immensely. 

I  saw  our  scene  painter  then  for  the  first  time. 
He  was  a  jolly  little  fellow,  and  as  full  of  cheery 
contrivance  as  a  Mark  Tapley.  No  difficulties 
seemed  to  daunt  him.  If  a  court  of  justice  were 
wanted  for  the  following  night,  and  the  nearest 
thing  he  had  to  it  were  a  bar  parlor,  he  was  not  in 
the  least  dismayed.  He  would  have  the  bar  par- 
lor down  ;  paint  in  a  bit  here ;  paint  out  a  bit 
there  ;  touch  up  a  bit  somewhere  else — there  was 
your  court  of  justice!  Half  an  hour  was  quite 
long  enough  for  him  to  turn  a  hay-field  into  a 
church-yard,  or  a  prison  into  a  bedroom. 

There  was  only  one  want,  in  the  present  case, 
that  he  didn't  supply,  and  that  was  cottages.  All 


SCENERY  AND   SUPERS.  59 

the  virtuous  people  in  the  play  lived  in  cottages. 
I  never  saw  such  a  run  on  cottages.  There  were 
plenty  of  other  residences  to  which  they  would 
have  been  welcome — halls,  palaces,  and  dungeons 
the  saloon  cabin  of  a  P.  and  O.  steamer,  drawing- 
room  of  No.  200  Belgrave  Square  (a  really 
magnificent  apartment  this,  with  a  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece).  But  no,  they  would  all  of  them 
live  in  cottages.  It  would  not  pay  to  alter  three 
or  four  different  scenes,  and  turn  them  all  into 
cottages,  especially  as  they  might,  likely  enough, 
be  wanted  for  something  else  in  a  week's  time  ;  so 
our  one  cottage  interior  had  to  accommodate 
about  four  distinct  families.  To  keep  up  appear- 
ances, however,  it  was  called  by  a  different  name 
on  each  occasion.  With  a  round  table  and  a 
candle,  it  was  a  widow's  cottage.  With  two  can- 
dles and  a  gun,  it  was  a  blacksmith's  house.  A 
square  table  instead  of  a  round  one — "  Daddy 
Soloman's  home  on  the  road  to  London.  '  Home, 
sweet  home.'  '  Put  a  spade  in  the  corner,  and 
hang  a  coat  behind  the  door,  and  you  had  the  old 
mill  on  the  Yorkshire  moors. 

It  was  all  no  use  though.  The  audience,  on 
the  opening  night,  greeted  its  second  appearance 
with  cries  of  kindly  recognition,  and  at  once  en- 
tered into  the  humor  of  the  thing.  A  Surrey- 
side  Saturday-night  audience  are  generally  in- 
clined to  be  cheerful,  and,  if  the  fun  on  the  stage 
doesn't  satisfy  them,  they  rely  on  their  own 


60  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

resources.  After  one  or  two  more  appearances, 
the  cottage  became  an  established  favorite  with 
the  gallery.  So  much  so,  indeed,  that  when  two 
scenes  passed  without  it  being  let  down,  there 
were  many  and  anxious  inquiries  after  it,  and  an 
earnest  hope  expressed  that  nothing  serious  had 
happened  to  it.  Its  reappearance  in  the  next  act 
(as  something  entirely  new)  was  greeted  with  a 
round  of  applause,  and  a  triumphant  demand  to 
know,  "  Who  said  it  was  lost  ?  " 

It  was  not  until  the  last  rehearsal  that  the 
supers  were  brought  into  play — or  work,  as  they 
would  have  called  it.  These  supers  were  drawn 
from  two  distinct  sources.  About  half  of  them 
were  soldiers,  engaged  to  represent  the  military 
force  of  the  drama,  while  the  other  half,  who  were 
to  be  desperate  rioters,  had  been  selected  from 
among  the  gentry  of  the  New  Cut  neighborhood. 

The  soldiers,  who  came  under  the  command  of 
their  sergeant,  were  by  far  the  best  thing  in  the 
play.  They  gave  an  air  of  reality  to  all  the  scenes 
in  which  they  appeared.  They  were  soldiers,  and 
went  about  their  business  on  the  stage  with  the 
same  calm  precision  that  they  would  have  dis- 
played in  the  drill  yard,  and  with  as  much  serious- 
ness as  if  they  had  been  in  actual  earnest.  When 
the  order  was  given  to  "  fix  bayonets  and  charge," 
they  did  so  with  such  grim  determination,  that 
there  was  no  necessity  at  all  to  direct  the  stage 
mob  to  "  feign  fear  and  rush  off  L.  I.  E."  They 


SCENERY  AND  SUPERS.  6 1 

went  as  one  man,  in  a  hurry.  There  was  no 
trouble,  either,  about  rehearsing  the  soldiers — no 
cursing  and  swearing  required,  which,  in  itself, 
was  an  immense  saving  of  time.  The  stage 
manager  told  the  sergeant  what  was  wanted. 
That  gruff-voiced  officer  passed  the  order  on  to 
his  men  (first  translating  it  into  his  own  unintel- 
ligible lingo),  and  the  thing  was  done. 

To  represent  soldiers  on  the  stage,  real  soldiers 
should,  without  doubt,  be  employed,  but  it  is  no 
good  attempting  to  use  them  for  anything  else. 

They  are  soldier-like  in  everything  they  do. 
You  may  dress  them  up  in  what  you  choose^  and 
call  them  what  you  will,  but  they  will  never  be 
anything  else  but  soldiers.  On  one  occasion,  our 
manager  tried  them  as  a  rabble.  They  were  care- 
fully instructed  how  to  behave.  They  were  told 
how  to  rush  wildly  on  with  a  fierce,  tumultuous 
yell ;  how  to  crowd  together  at  the  back  of  the 
stage,  and,  standing  there,  surging  backward 
and  forward  like  an  angry  sea,  brandish  their 
weapons,  and  scowl  menacingly  upon  the  oppo- 
sing myrmidons  of  the  law,  until,  at  length,  their 
sullen  murmurs  deepening  into  a  roar  of  savage 
hate,  they  would  break  upon  the  wall  of  steel 
before  them,  and  sweep  it  from  their  path,  as 
pent-up  waters,  bursting  their  bonds,  bear  down 
some  puny  barrier. 

That  was  the  theory  of  the  thing.  That  is  how 
a  stage  mob  ought  to  behave  itself.  How  it  really 


62  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

does  behave  itself  is  pretty  generally  known.  It 
comes  in  with  a  jog-trot,  every  member  of  it 
prodding  the  man  in  front  of  him  in  the  small  of 
his  back.  It  spreads  itself  out  in  a  line  across  the 
stage,  and  grins.  When  the  signal  is  given  for 
the  rush,  each  man — still  grinning — walks  up  to 
the  soldier  nearest  to  him,,  and  lays  hold  of  that 
warrior's  gun.  The  two  men  then  proceed  to 
heave  the  murderous  weapon  slowly  up  and  down, 
as  if  it  were  a  pump  handle.  This  they  continue 
to  do  with  steady  perseverance,  until  the  soldier, 
apparently  from  a  fit  of  apoplexy — for  there  is  no 
outward  and  visible  cause  whatever  to  account 
for  it — suddenly  collapses,  when  the  conquering 
rioter  takes  the  gun  away  from  him,  and  entangles 
himself  in  it. 

This  is  funny  enough,  but  our  soldiers  made  it 
funnier  still.  One  might  just  as  well  have  tried  to 
get  a  modern  House  of  Commons  to  represent 
a  disorderly  rabble.  They  simply  couldn't  do  it. 
They  went  on  in  single  file  at  the  double  quick, 
formed  themselves  into  a  hollow  square  in  the 
center  of  the  stage,  and  then  gave  three  distinct 
cheers,  taking  time  from  the  sergeant.  That  was 
their  notion  of  a  rabble. 

The  other  set,  the  regular  bob  (sometimes 
eighteenpence)  a  night  "  sups,"  were  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent character.  Professional  supers,  taken  as  a 
class,  are  the  most  utterly  dismal  specimens  of 


SCENERY  AND  SUPERS.  63 

humanity  to  be  met  with  in  this  world.  Compared 
with  them,  "sandwich-men"  are  dashing  and 
rollicky.  Ours  were  no  exception  to  the  rule. 
They  hung  about  in  a  little  group  by  themselves, 
and  looked  like  a  picture  of  dejected  dinginess, 
that  their  mere  presence  had  a  depressing  effect 
upon  everybody  else.  Strange  that  men  can't  be 
gay  and  light-hearted  on  an  income  of  six  shillings 
a  week,  but  so  it  is. 

One  of  them  I  must  exclude  from  this  descrip- 
tion— a  certain  harmless  idiot,  who  went  by  the 
title  of  "  Mad  Mat,"  though  he  himself  always 
gave  his  name  as  "  Mr.  Matthew  Alexander  St. 
George  Clement." 

This  poor  fellow  had  been  a  super  for  a  good 
many  years,  but  there  had  evidently  been. a  time 
when  he  had  played  a  very  different  part  in  life. 
"Gentleman  "  was  stamped  very  plainly  upon  his 
thin  face,  and  where  he  was  not  crazy  he  showed 
thought  and  education.  Rumor  said  that  he  had 
started  life  as  a  young  actor,  full  of  promise  and 
talent,  but  what  had  set  him  mad  nobody  knew. 
The  ladies  naturally  attributed  it  to  love,  it  being 
a  fixed  tenet  among  the  fair  sex  that  everything 
that  happens  to  mankind,  from  finding  themselves 
in  bed  with  their  boots  on  to  having  the  water 
cut  off,  is  all  owing  to  that  tender  passion.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  uncharitable — generally  a 
majority — suggested  drink.  But  nobody  did  any- 


64  '    ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

thing  more  than  conjecture  :  nobody  really  knew. 
The  link  between  the  prologue  and  the  play  was 
lost.  Mat  himself  was  under  the  firm  conviction 
that  he  was  a  great  actor,  who  was  only  kept  from 
appearing  in  the  leading  roles  by  professional 
jealousy.  But  a  time  would  come,  and  then 
he  would  show  us  what  he  could  do.  Romeo  was 
his  great  ambition.  One  of  these  days  he  meant 
to  act  that  character.  He  had  been  studying  it 
for  years,  he  once  whispered  to  me  in  confidence, 
and  when  he  appeared  in  it,  he  knew  he  should 
make  a  sensation. 

Strange  to  say,  his  madness  did  not  interfere  at 
all  with  his  superial  duties.  While  on  the  stage 
he  was  docile  enough,  and  did  just  as  he  saw  the 
other  supers  do.  It  was  only  off  the  stage  that 
he  put  on  his  comically  pathetic  dignity  ;  then,  if 
the  super-master  attempted  to  tell  him  what  to  do 
he  would  make  a  ceremonious  bow,  and  observe, 
with  some  hauteur,  that  Mr.  St.  George  Clement 
was  not  accustomed  to  be  instructed  how  to  act 
his  part.  He  never  mixed  with  the  other  supers, 
but  would  stand  apart,  talking  low  to  himself,  and 
seeming  to  see  something  a  long  way  off.  He 
was  the  butt  of  the  whole  theater,  and  his  half- 
timid,  half-pompous  ways  afforded  us  a  good  deal 
of  merriment ;  but  sometimes  there  was  such  a 
sad  look  in  Mat's  white  face,  that  it  made  one's 
heart  ache  more  than  one's  sides. 


SCENER  Y  AND  SUPERS.  65 

His  strange  figure  and  vague  history  haunted 
my  thoughts  in  a  most  uncomfortable  manner. 
I  used  to  think  of  the  time  when  those  poor 
vacant  eyes  looked  out  upon  the  world,  full  of 
hope  and  ambition,  and  then  I  wondered  if  / 
should  ever  become  a  harmless  idiot,  who  thought 
himself  a  great  actor. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
Dressing. 

|E  had  no  dress  rehearsal.  In  the  whole 
course  of  my  professional  life,  I  remem- 
ber but  one  dress  rehearsal.  That  was 
for  a  pantomime  in  the  provinces.  Only 
half  the  costumes  arrived  in  time  for  it.  I  myself 
appeared  in  a  steel  breast-plate  and  helmet,  and  a 
pair  of  check  trousers;  and  I  have  a  recollection  of 
seeing  somebody  else — the  King  of  the  Cannibal 
Islands,  I  think — going  about  in  spangled  tights 
and  a  frock  coat.  There  was  a  want  of  finish,  as 
one  might  say,  about  the  affair. 

Old  stagers,  of  course,  can  manage  all  right 
without  them,  but  the  novice  finds  it  a  little  awk- 
ward to  jump  from  plain  dress  rehearsals  to  the 
performance  itself.  He  has  been  making  love  to 
a  pale-faced,  middle-aged  lady,  dressed  in  black 
grenadine  and  a  sealskin  jacket,  and  he  is  quite 
lost  when  smiled  upon  by  a  high-complexioned, 
girlish  young  thing,  in  blue  stockings  and  short 
skirts.  He  finds  defying  stout,  good-tempered 
Mr.  Jones  a  very  different  thing  to  bullying  a 
beetle-browed  savage,  of  appearance  something 

66 


DRESSING.  67 

between  Bill  Sykes  and  a  Roman  gladiator,  and 
whose  acquaintance  he  then  makes  for  the  first 
time.  Besides,  he  is  not  at  all  sure  that  he  has 
got  hold  of  the  right  man. 

I,  in  my  innocence,  so  fully  expected  at  least 
one  dress  rehearsal,  that,  when  time  went  on,  and 
there  were  no  signs  of  any  such  thing,  I  mooted 
the  question  myself,  so  that  there  should  be  no 
chance  of  its  being  accidentally  overlooked.  The 
mere  idea,  however,  was  scouted.  It  was  looked 
upon  as  the  dream  of  a  romantic  visionary. 

"  Don't  talk  about  dress  rehearsals,  my  boy," 
was  the  reply;  "think  yourself  lucky  if  you  get 
your  dress  all  right  by  the  night." 

The  "  my  boy,"  I  may  remark,  by  no  means 
implied  that  the  speaker  thought  me  at  all  youth- 
ful. Indeed,  seeing  that  I  was  eighteen  at  the 
time,  he  hardly  could,  you  know.  Every  actor  is 
"my  boy,"  just,  as  before  mentioned,  every  act- 
ress is  "  my  dear."  At  first  I  was  rather  offended  ; 
but  when  I  heard  gray-headed  stars,  and  respect- 
able married  heads,  addressed  in  the  same  famil- 
iar and  unceremonious  manner,  my  dignity  recov- 
ered itself.  It  is  well  our  dignity  is  not  as  brittle 
as  Humpty  Dumpty.  How  very  undignified  we 
should  all  become,  before  we  had  been  long  in 
this  world. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  nobody — at  all  events,  none 
of  the  men,  with  the  exception  of  Chequers — 
seemed  to  care  in  the  slightest  about  what  they 


68  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

should  wear.  "  Chequers  "  was  the  name  we  had 
given  to  our  walking  gentleman,  as  a  delicate  al- 
lusion to  the  pattern  of  his  overcoat.  I  think  I 
have  already  described  the  leading  features  in  this 
young  man's  private-life  apparel.  He  went  in  a 
good  deal  for  dress,  and  always  came  out  strong. 
His  present  ambition  was  to  wear  his  new  ulster 
in  the  piece,  and  this  he  did,  though,  seeing  that 
the  action  of  the  play  was  supposed  to  take  place 
a  century  ago,  it  was  hardly  consistent  with  his- 
torical accuracy.  But  then  historical  accuracy 
was  not  a  strong  point  with  our  company,  who 
went  more  on  the  principle  of  what  you  happened 
to  have  by  you.  At  the  better  class  of  London 
theater,  everything  is  now  provided  by  the  man- 
agement, and  the  actor  has  only  to  put  on  what 
is  given  him.  But  with  the  theaters  and  com- 
panies into  which  I  went,  things  were  very  differ- 
ent ;  costumes  being  generally  left  to  each  per- 
son's individual  discretion.  For  ordinary  modern 
dress  parts,  we  had  to  use  our  own  things  en- 
tirely, and  in  all  cases  we  were  expected  to  find 
ourselves  in  hosiery  and  boot  leather,  by  which 
I  mean  such  things  as  tights  and  stockings,  and 
the  boots  and  shoes  of  every  period  and  people  ; 
the  rest  of  the  costume  was  provided  for  us — at 
all  events  in  London. 

In  the  provinces,  where  every  article  necessary 
for  either  a  classical  tragedy  or  a  pantomime  has 
often  to  be  found  by  the  actor  himself,  I  have 


DRESSING.  69 

seen  some  very  remarkable  wardrobe  effects.  A 
costume  play,  under  these  circumstances,  rivaled 
a  fancy  dress  ball  in  variety.  It  was  considered 
nothing  out  of  the  way  for  a  father,  belonging  to 
the  time  of  George  III,  to  have  a  son  who,  evi- 
dently from  his  dress,  flourished  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.  As  for  the  supers,  when  there  were 
any,  they  were  attired  in  the  first  thing  that  came 
to  hand,  and  always  wore  their  own  boots. 

Picturesqueness  was  the  great  thing.  Even 
now,  and  at  some  of  the  big  London  houses,  this 
often  does  duty  for  congruity  and  common  sense. 
The  tendency  to  regard  all  female  foreigners  as 
Italian  peasant  girls,  and  to  suppose  that  all  agri- 
cultural laborers  wear  red  waistcoats  embroidered 
with  yellow,  still  lingers  on  the  stage. 

Even  where  costumes  were  provided,  the  lead- 
ing actors,  and  those  who  had  well-stocked  ward- 
robes of  their  own,  generally  preferred  to  dress 
the  part  themselves,  and  there  was  nobody  who 
did  not  supplement  the  costumier's  ideas  to  some 
greater  or  less  extent. 

I  am  speaking  only  of  the  men.  Actresses 
nearly  always  find  their  own  dresses.  There  is  no 
need  of  a  very  varied  wardrobe  in  their  case,  for 
in  spite  of  all  the  talk  about  female  fashions,  a 
woman's  dress  is  much  the  same  now  as  in  the 
time  of  the  Mrs.  Noahs — at  least,  so  it  seems  to 
me,  judging  from  my  own  ark.  The  dress  that 
Miss  Eastlake  wore  in  the  Silver  King  would,  I 


7°  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

am  sure,  do  all  right  for  Ophelia;  and  what  dif- 
ference is  there  between  Queen  Elizabeth  and 
Mrs.  Bouncer  ?  None  whatever,  except  about  the 
collar  and  the  sleeves ;  and  anybody  can  alter  a 
pair  of  sleeves  and  make  a  ruff.  Why  do  actresses 
have  so  many  dresses?  As  far  as  mere  shape  is 
concerned,  one  would  do  for  everything,  with  a 
few  slight  alterations.  You  just  tack  on  a  tuck 
or  a  furbelow,  or  take  in  a  flounce,  and  there  you 
are. 

Maybe  I'm  wrong,  though. 

We  were  told  to  look  in  at  the  costumier's  some 
time  during  the  week,  for  him  to  take  our  meas- 
urement, and  those  of  us  who  were  inexperienced 
in  theatrical  costumiers  did  so,  and  came  away 
with  a  hopeful  idea  that  we  were  going  to  be 
sent  clothes  that  would  nearly  fit  us.  The  ma- 
jority, however,  did  not  go  through  this  farce, 
but  quietly  took  what  they  found  in  their  dress- 
ing-rooms on  the  opening  night,  and  squeezed 
themselves  into,  or  padded  themselves  out  to  it, 
as  the  necessity  happened  to  be. 

The  dressing-rooms  (two  rows  of  wooden  sheds, 
divided  by  a  narrow  passage)  were  situated  over 
the  property-room,  and  were  reached  by  means  of 
a  flight  of  steps,  which  everybody  ascended  and 
descended  very  gingerly  indeed,  feeling  sure  each 
time  that  the  whole  concern  would  come  down 
before  they  got  to  the  other  end.  These  apart- 
ments had  been  carefully  prepared  for  our  recep- 


DRESSING.  7 * 

tiota.  The  extra  big  holes  in  the  partitions  had 
been  bunged  up  with  brown  paper,  and  the  white- 
wash had  been  laid  on  everywhere  with  a  lavish- 
ness  that  betokened  utter  disregard  of  the  ex- 
pense ;  though  as,  before  a  week  was  over,  nearly 
the  whole  of  it  had  been  transferred  to  our 
clothes,  this  was  rather  a  waste,  so  far  as  the 
management  was  concerned.  It  was  even  re- 
ported that  one  of  the  rooms  had  been  swept  out, 
but  I  never  saw  any  signs  of  such  a  thing  having 
been  done  myself  either  then  or  at  any  other 
time,  and  am  inclined  to  look  upon  the  statement 
merely  in  the  light  of  a  feeler,  thrown  out  for  the 
purpose  of  getting  at  the  views  of  the  char- 
woman. If  so,  however,  it  was  a  failure.  She 
said  nothing  on  hearing  it,  but  looked  offended, 
and  evidently  considered  it  a  subject  that  should 
not  have  been  mentioned  to  a  lady. 

One  or  two  of  the  doors  still  hung  upon  their 
hinges,  and  could,  with  a  little  maneuvering,  be 
opened  or  shut ;  but  in  most  cases  they  had  been 
wrenched  off,  and  stood  propped  up  against  their 
own  posts,  like  drunken  revelers  taken  home  by 
the  cabmen.  The  only  means  therefore  of  get- 
ting in  or  out  of  the  rooms  was  by  lifting  them 
bodily  away.  It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  watch 
some  stout,  short-winded  actor,  staggering  about 
the  place  with  one  of  these  great  doors  in  his 
arms,  trying  to  make  it  stand  up.  After  a  series 
of  fearful  efforts,  he  would  get  it  wedged  firmly 


72  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

across  the  passage,  and,  at  that  exact  mome'nt, 
some  one  would  be  sure  to  come  rushing  upstairs 
in  a  desperate  hurry  to  get  to  his  room.  He 
could  not,  of  course,  pass  while  the  wretched 
door  was  in  that  position,  so,  with  a  view  of 
expediting  matters,  he  would  lay  hold  of  the 
other  side  of  it,  and  begin  tugging.  The  first 
man,  not  being  able  to  see  what  was  going  on, 
and  thinking  larks  were  being  played  with  him, 
would  plunge  about  more  wildly  than  ever,  and 
jam  the  door  down  on  the  other  fellow's  toes. 
Then  they  would  both  grapple  madly  with  it,  one 
on  each  side,  bump  each  other's  head  with  it,  crush 
each  other  with  it  against  the  sides  of  the  pas- 
sage, and  end  by  all  three  going  down  in  a  heap 
together,  the  door  uppermost. 

The  furniture  provided,  simple  though  it  was, 
had  evidently  been  selected  with  a  thoughtful 
desire  that  everything  should  be  in  keeping:  it 
consisted  of  a  few  broken  chairs.  The  supply  of 
toilet  requisites  in  hand,  too,  seemed  to  be  rather 
limited,  but  great  care  and  ingenuity  had  been 
displayed  in  their  distribution.  There  not  being 
enough  basins  and  jugs  to  go  all  around,  these 
had  been  divided.  Some  rooms  had  a  jug  but  no 
basin,  while  others  had  a  basin  but  no  jug,  either 
circumstance  being  a  capital  excuse  for  leaving 
them  without  any  water.  Where  there  was 
neither  basin  nor  jug,  you  could  safely  reckon  on 
a  soap-dish.  We  were  supplied  with  towels,  the 


DRESSING.  73 

allowance  being  one  a  fortnight — a  small  thin 
one  with  a  big  hole  in  the  middle — among  six, 
but  we  brought  our  own  soap  :  at  least  some 
of  us  did,  and  the  others,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  appropriated  it. 

One  of  the  rooms  was  better  appointed  than 
the  others,  being  able  to  boast  a  washstand,  made 
out  of  an  old  cane  chair  that  had  lost  its  back 
and  one  of  its  legs.  This  article  of  luxury  was 
the  cause  of  a  good  deal  of  bitterness  at  first 
among  the  occupants  of  the  less-favored  apart- 
ments, but  its  tendency  toward  sudden  and 
unexpected  collapse  soon  lessened  this  feeling  of 
envy.  Even  its  owners  ceased  to  take  any  pride 
in  it  after  a  while,  and  it  was  eventually  kicked 
to  pieces  in  a  fit  of  frenzy  by  Juveniles  ;  it  having 
been  the  cause,  as  far  as  we  could  gather  from  his 
disjointed  blasphemy,  of  his  being  compelled  to 
play  all  the  rest  of  that  evening  in  sopping  wet 
tights. 

A  blear-eyed  individual  used  to  hang  about 
these  rooms  of  a  night.  He  called  himself  a 
dresser,  though,  for  all  the  dressing  he  ever  did, 
he  might  just  as  well  have  been  a  kitchen  one. 
He  got  a  dressing  himself  once  for  upsetting  a 
pot  of  paint  over  Jim's  supper;  but  that  was  the 
only  one  he  ever,  to  my  knowledge,  assisted  at. 
However,  he  came  in  handy  to  go  out  for  sheep's 
head  and  porter. 

But  although  the  dressing-rooms  surprised  me 


74  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

somewhat,  they  did  not  disappoint  me.  I  had 
built  no  expectations  upon  them.  I  had  conjured 
up  no  airy  visions  concerning  them.  Mine  eyes 
had  not  hungered  to  gaze  upon  their  imagined 
glories.  No,  the  dressing-rooms  I  bore  up  under  ; 
it  was  the  green  room  that  crushed  me.  It  was 
about  the  green  room  that  my  brightest  hopes 
had  been  centered.  It  was  there  that  I  was  to 
flirt  with  Beauty,  and  converse  with  Intellect.  I 
had  pictured  a  brilliantly  lighted  and  spacious 
apartment  with  a  polished  oak  floor,  strewn  with 
costly  rugs ;  gilded  walls,  hung  with  choicest 
gems  of  art  ;  and  a  lofty,  painted  ceiling.  There 
would  be  luxurious  easy-chairs  and  couches,  upon 
which  to  rest  ourselves  between  our  artistic 
labors  ;  a  piano,  from  which  fairy  fingers  would 
draw  forth  rapturous  strains,  while  I  turned  over 
the  music;  and  carved  cabinets,  filled  with  old 
china,  and  other  rare  and  precious  knickknacks. 
Heavy  curtains,  over  the  door,  would  deaden  the 
outside  din  to  a  droning  murmur,  which  would 
mingle  pleasantly  with  the  low  hum  of  cheerful 
conversation  within  ;  whilst  the  flickering  fire- 
light, flashing  upon  the  Spanish  mahogany  furni- 
ture, and  glittering  reflected  in  the  many  mirrors 
round  the  room,  would  throw  a  touch  of  homeliness 
over  what  might  otherwise  have  been  the  almost 
too  dazzling  splendor  of  the  place. 

There  was  no  green  room.     There  never  had 
been  a  green  room.     I  never  saw  a  green  room, 


DRESSING.  75 

except  in  a  play,  though  I  was  always  on  the  look- 
out for  it.  I  met  an  old  actor  once  who  had 
actually  been  in  one,  and  I  used  to  get  him  to 
come  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  But  even  his 
recollections  were  tinged  with  a  certain  vagueness. 
He  was  not  quite  sure  whether  it  had  been  at 
Liverpool  or  at  Newcastle  that  he  had  come  across 
it,  and  at  other  times  he  thought  it  must  have 
been  at  Exeter.  But  wherever  it  was,  the  theater 
had  been  burnt  down  a  good  many  years  ago — 
about  that  he  was  positive*. 

On  one  occasion,  I  went  specially  to  a  big 
London  theater  where,  I  was  assured,  there  really 
was  one,  and  it  cost  me  four-and-sevenpence  in 
drinks.  I  found  the  green  room  all  right,  but  they 
said  I  had  better  not  go  in,  because  it  was  chock 
full  of  properties,  and  I  might  break  something  in 
the  dark. 

The  truth  is  that  where  a  green  room  was  origin- 
ally provided,  it  has  been  taken  by  the  star  or  the 
manager,  as  his  or  her  private  room,  and  the  rest 
of  the  company  are  left  to  spend  their  off  time 
either  in  their  own  dressing-rooms,  where  they  are 
always  in  each  other's  way,  or  at  the  wings,  where 
they  catch  cold,  and  are  hustled  by  the  scene- 
shifters. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
My  "First  Deboo" 

|N  Saturday  came  the  opening  night,  and 
with  it  my  fiYst  appearance  before  the 
British  public — my  "  first  deboo  "  as 
our  perruquier  called  it.  In  thinking 
about  it  beforehand,  I  had  been  very  much  afraid 
lest  I  should  be  nervous ;  but  strange  to  say,  I 
never  experienced  stage-fright  at  any  time.  I  say 
strange,  because,  at  that  period  of  my  life  at  all 
events,  I  was — as  true  greatness  generally  is — of 
a  modest  and  retiring  disposition.  In  my  very 
early  youth,  I  believe,  I  was  not  so.  I  am  told 
that  in  my  frock  and  pinafore  days,  I  used  to 
stand  upon  the  table,  and  recite  poetry,  to  the 
intense  gratification  of  my  elderly  relatives  (ah, 
the  old  folks  knew  how  to  enjoy  themselves,  when 
I  was  a  boy!);  and  an  old  nurse  of  mine  always 
insisted  that  on  one  occasion  I  collected  half  a 
crown  in  an  omnibus  by  my  spirited  rendering  of 
"  Baa,  baa,  black  sheep."  I  have  no  recollection 
of  this  performance  myself  though,  and,  if  it 
really  did  take  place,  where's  the  money?  This 

76 


M  Y  "  FIRST  DEBOO."  7 7 

part  of  the  question  has  never,  to  my  mind,  been 
satisfactorily  cleared  up. 

But  however  self-possessed  I  may  have  been  at 
eight,  I  was  anything  but  so  at  eighteen.  Even 
now,  I  would  not  act  to  a  drawing-room  full  of 
people  for  a  thousand  pounds — supposing  the 
company' considered  the  effort  worth  that  sum. 
But  before  a  public  audience,  I  was  all  right,  and 
entirely  free  from  that  shyness  about  which,  in 
private  life,  my  lady  friends  so  bitterly  complain. 
I  could  not  see  the  people  for  one  thing — at  all 
events,  not  those  beyond  the  third  row  of  stalls. 
The  blaze  of  light  surrounding  one  on  the  stage, 
and  the  dimness  of  the  rest  of  the  house,  give  the 
audience  a  shadowy  and  ghost-like  appearance, 
and  make  it  impossible  to  see  more  than  a  general 
mass  of  white  faces.  As  I  never  noticed  the 
"  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  glaring  eyes,"  they 
did  not  trouble  me,  and  I  let  'em  glare.  The  most 
withering  glance  in  the  world  won't  crush  a  blind 
man. 

If  I  had  been  nervous  on  the  first  night,  I  think 
I  should  have  had  a  good  excuse  for  it,  knowing, 
as  I  did,  that  a  select  party  of  my  most  particu- 
lar friends,  including  a  few  medical  students  and 
clergymen's  sons,  were  somewhere  in  the  theater; 
'having  come  down  in  a  body  with  the  intention  of 
giving  me  a  fair  start,  as  they  said.  They  had  in- 
sisted on  coming.  I  had  begged  them  not  to 
trouble  themselves  on  my  account,  but  they 


78  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

wouldn't  hear  of  it.  They  said  it  would  be  such 
a  comfort  to  me  to  know  that  they  were  there. 
That  was  their  thoughful  kindness.  It  touched 
me. 

I  said :  "  Look  here,  you  know,  if  you  fellows 
are  going  to  play  the  fool,  I'll  chuck  the  whole 
blessed  thing  up." 

They  said  they  were  not  going  to  play  the  fool ; 
they  were  coming  to  see  me.  I  raised  no  further 
objections. 

But  I  checkmated  them.  I  lied  to  those  con- 
fiding young  men  with  such  an  air  of  simple  truth- 
fulness, that  they  believed  me,  though  they  had 
known  me  for  years.  Even  now,  after  all  this 
time,  I  feel  a  glow  of  pride  when  I  think  how 
consummately  I  deceived  them.  They  knew 
nothing  of  the  theaters  or  actors  over  the  water 
so  I  just  gave  them  the  name  of  our  first  old  man, 
and  told  them  that  that  was  the  name  I  had 
taken.  I  exaggerated  the  effect  of  making-up, 
and  impressed  upon  them  the  idea  that  I  should 
be  so  changed  that  they  would  never  believe  it 
was  I ;  and  I  requested  them  especially  to  note 
my  assumed  voice.  I  did  not  say  what  character 
I  was  going  to  play,  but  I  let  slip  a  word  now 
and  then  implying  that  my  mind  was  running  on 
gray  hairs  and  long-lost  children,  and  I  bought  a 
stick  exactly  similar  to  the  one  the  poor  old  gen- 
tleman was  going  to  use  in  the  part,  and  let  it  lie 
about. 


MY  "  FIRST  DEB 00."  79 

So  far  as  I  was  concerned,  the  plan  was  a 
glorious  success,  but  the  effect  upon  the  old  man 
was  remarkable.  He  was  too  deaf  to  hear  exactly 
what  was  going  on,  but  he  gathered  enough  to  be 
aware  that  he  was  the  object  of  a  certain  amount 
of  attention,  and  that  he  was  evidently  giving 
great  satisfaction  to  a  portion  of  the  audience ; 
which  latter  circumstance  apparently  surprised 
him.  The  dear  fellows  gave  him  a  splendid  recep- 
tion when  he  first  appeared.  They  applauded 
everything  he  said  or  did  throughout  the  play, 
and  called  for  him  after  every  act.  They  encored 
his  defiance  of  the  villain,  and,  when  he  came  on 
without  his  hat  in  a  snow  scene,  they  all  pulled 
out  their  pocket  handkerchiefs  and  sobbed  aloud. 
At  the  end  they  sent  a  message  round  to  tell  him 
to  hurry  up,  as  they  were  waiting  for  him  at  the 
stage  door,  an  announcement  that  had  the  effect 
of  sending  him  out  by  the  front  way  in  wonder- 
fully quick  time. 

On  the  whole,  that  first  night  passed  off  pretty 
well.  First  nights  are  trying  times  at  all  theaters. 
The  state  of  excitement  behind  the  scenes  is  at 
fever  heat,  and  the  stage  manager  and  the  head 
carpenter  become  positively  dangerous.  In  sensa- 
tion pieces,  where  the  author  plays  second  fiddle 
to  the  scene-shifter,  this,  of  course,  is  especially 
the  case. 

Now — as  all  modern  playgoers  know — there  are 
never  any  hitches  or  delays  on  first  nights.  At 


So  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

all  events,  not  at  any  of  the  West-end  houses, 
where  everything  is  always  a  "  triumph  of  stage 
management ! "  But  in  my  time,  hitches  on 
first  nights  were  the  rule  rather  than  the  excep- 
tion, and  when  a  scene  was  got  through  without 
any  special  mishap,  we  felt  we  were  entitled  to 
shake  hands  with  one  another.  I  remember  one 
first  night  at  a  London  theater  where  the  sensa- 
tion was  to  be  the  fall  of  a  house,  crushing  the 
villain  ^literally)  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  act. 
Great  expectations  were  entertained  about  this 
"  effect."  It  was  confidently  calculated  that  the 
collapse  of  this  building  would  bring  down  the 
house,  and  so  no  doubt  it  would  have  done,  if, 
owing  to  a  mistake  in  the  cues,  the  curtain  had 
not  come  down  first.  The  house  fell  beautifully, 
the  dummy  villain  was  killed  on  the  spot,  and  the 
heroine  saved  in  the  nick  of  time  by  the  hero 
(who,  in  these  plays,  is  always  just  round  the 
corner),  but  the  audience  only  wondered  what  all 
the  noise  was  about,  and  why  no  .one  had  struck 
an  attitude  at  the  end  of  the  act. 

But  however  flat  things  fell  in  front,  the  sensa- 
tion behind  was  undoubted.  When  the  excite- 
ment had  partially  subsided,  there  was  an  ener- 
getic inquiry  for  the  man  who  had  let  down  the 
curtain,  but  it  appeared  that  he  had  left  without 
stopping  even  to  put  on  his  hat.  This  did  not 
transpire  at  the  time,  however,  and,  for  half  an 
hour  afterward,  the  manager  was  observed  to  be 


MY  "FIRST  DEBOO."  8l 

wandering  about  with  a  crowbar,  apparently  look- 
ing for  some  one. 

The  premature  rise  of  curtains  is  attended  with 
still  more  ludicrous  results.  On  one  occasion,  I 
call  to  mind,  the  "  rag  "  went  up  unexpectedly, 
and  discovered  the  following  scene  : 

The  king  of  the  country,  sitting  by  the  side 
of  his  dying  son.     He  is  drinking  beer  out  of 
a  bottle.     His  wig  and  beard  lie  beside  him 
on  the  floor. — The  dying  son,  touching  her- 
self up  by  the  aid  of  a  powder-puff  and  a 
hand-glass. — The  chief  priest  of  the  country 
(myself)  eating  a  Bath  bun,  while  a  friendly 
super  buttons  him  up  the  back. 
Another  time  I  recollect  was  at  a  very  small 
provincial  theater.     There  was  only  one  dressing- 
room  in  the  whole  place,  and  that  the  ladies  had 
of  course.     We  men  had  to  dress  on  the  stage  it- 
self.    You    can   imagine  the   rest — the  yell,  the 
confusion  ;  the  wild  stampede  ;  the  stage  looking 
like  the  south   bank  of  the    Serpentine  after   8 
P.  M. ;    the    rapid    descent    of   the    curtain;    the 
enthusiastic  delight  of  the  audience.     It  was  the 
greatest  success  we  had  during  our  stay. 

I  have  a  strong  opinion,  however,  that  this  latter 
catastrophe  was  not  due  so  much  to  accident  as 
to  a  certain  mean  villain  among  the  company, 
whose  name,  in  consideration  of  his  family,  I  re- 
frain from  mentioning. 


CHAPTER    IX. 
Birds  of  Prey. 

REMAINED  in  London  with  my  first 
manager  during  the  whole  summer 
season,  which  lasted  about  nine  months, 
and  I  think  that,  altogether,  it  was  the 
happiest  period  of  my  stage  career.  The  com- 
pany was  a  thoroughly  agreeable  one.  It  was  a 
genial,  jovial  company — a  "  Here  you  are,  my 
boy ;  just  in  time  for  a  pull  "  sort  of  company — a 
"  Hail  fellow  well  met  "  with  everybody  else  sort 
of  company.  Among  players,  there  are  none  of 
those  caste  distinctions  such  as  put  an  insurmount- 
able barrier  between  the  man  who  sells  coal  by 
the  ton  and  the  man  who  sells  it  by  the  hundred- 
weight. "  The  Profession  "  is  a  Republic.  Lead 
and  Utility  walk  about  arm-in-arm,  and  the  Star 
and  the  Singing  Chambermaid  drink  out  of  the 
same  pewter.  We  were  all  as  friendly  and  socia- 
ble together  as  brothers  and  sisters — perhaps  even 
more  so — and  the  evening  spent  in  those  bare 
dressing-rooms  was  the  pleasantest  part  of  the 
day.  There  was  never  a  dull  moment,  but  always 
plenty  of  bustle  and  fun,  plenty  of  anecdotes, 

82 


BIRDS  OF  PREY.  83 

plenty  of  good  stories — ah,  they  could  tell  'em ! — 
plenty  of  flirting,  and  talking,  and  joking,  and 
laughing. 

What  jolly  little  suppers  they  were,  too,  brought 
in  smoking  hot  from  the  cook-shop  over  the  way, 
and  in  the  middle  of  which  we  had  to  be  con- 
stantly rushing  oft"  with  our  mouths  full  to  rescue 
some  unfortunate  female  who  was  always  getting 
into  trouble,  or  to  murder  an  uncle ;  and  how 
wide  we  had  to  open  our  lips,  when  eating,  lest 
we  should  rub  the  carmine  off!  How  delicious  a 
quart  of  six  ale  was  after  a  row  with  the  police,  or 
a  struggle  with  the  man  who  had  carried  off  the 
girl  !  How  enjoyable  a  smoke  when  you  had  to 
hide  your  pipe  in  your  boot  each  time  you  heard 
a  footstep,  because  smoking  was  strictly  pro- 
hibited! 

I  was  not  so  contented  at  first  as  I  might  have 
been.  I  expected  about  three  pounds  a  week 
salary  after  givingmy  one  month  gratis,  and  I  did 
not  get  it.  My  agreement,  it  may  be  remembered, 
stipulated  that  I  should  receive  a  "salary  accord- 
ing to  ability"  at  the  end  of  that  time,  but  the 
manager  said  he  did  not  think  there  would  ever 
be  enough  money  in  the  house  to  pay  me  at  that 
scale, and  suggested  nine  shillings  a  week  instead, 
generously  giving  me  the  option  of  either  taking 
it  or  leaving  it.  I  took  it. 

I  took  it  because  I  saw  plainly  enough  that  if 
I  didn't  I  should  get  nothing,  that  he  could  find 


84  ON>  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

twenty  other  young  fellows  as  good  as  I  to  come 
without  any  salary  at  all,  and  that  the  agreement 
was  not  worth  the  paper  it  was  written  on.  I  was 
wroth  at  the  time,  but,  seeing  that  the  nine  shil- 
lings was  soon  raised  to  twelve,  and  afterward  to 
fifteen  and  eighteen,  I  had  really,  taking  things 
as  they  were,  nothing  to  grumble  at;  and,  when 
I  came  to  know  a  little  more  about  professional 
salaries,  and  learnt  what  even  the  old  hands  were 
glad  to  get,  1  was  very  well  satisfied. 

The  company  was  engaged  at  summer  prices, 
which  are  a  good  deal  less  than  winter  ones,  and 
these  latter  average  something  less  than  the  wages 
of  an  industrious  sweep.  The  public,  who  read  of 
this  actor  receiving  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds 
a  night,  of  that  actress  making  eight  hundred 
pounds  a  week,  of  a  low  comedian's  yearly  income 
being  somewhere  about  six  thousand  pounds,  and 
of  a  London  manager  who  has  actually  paid  his 
rates  and  taxes  (so  he  says),  can  scarcely  have  any 
idea  of  what  existence  at  the  bottom  of  the  stage 
ladder  is  like.  It  is  a  long  ladder,  and  there  are 
very  few  who  possess  a  personal  experience  of 
both  ends.  Those  who  do,  however,  must  appre- 
ciate the  contrast.  Mr.  Henry  Irving,  speaking 
somewhere  of  his  early  days,  mentions  his  weekly 
salary,  I  think,  as  having  been  twenty-five  shil- 
lings; and  no  doubt,  at  the  time,  he  thought  that 
very  good,  and  can  most  likely  remember  when 
he  got  less.  In  the  provinces,  thirty  shillings  is  a 


BIRDS  OF  PREY.  85 

high  figure  for  a  good  all-round  "  responsibles," 
and  for  that  amount  he  is  expected  to  be  equal  to 
Othello  or  Sir  Peter  Teazle  at  a  moment's  notice, 
and  to  find  his  own  dress.  A  "lead"  may  get 
three  pounds  in  the  \vinter,and  a  young"  utility" 
thinks  himself  very  well  off  indeed  on  a  guinea. 
Now  and  again,  the  latter  will  get  twenty-two  or 
three  shillings,  but  this  only  leads  him  into  habits 
of  extravagance,  and  he  suffers  for  it  afterward. 
At  the  minor  London  theaters,  there  being  no 
expenses  connected  with  traveling,  etc.,  the 
salaries  are  even  less,  and  from  eighteen  shillings 
to  two  pounds  are  about  the  sums  promised. 

I  do  not  believe  I  should  ever  have  got  even 
the  salary  I  did,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  extra- 
ordinary circumstance  of  a  really  successful  sea- 
son, so  successful,  indeed,  that  the  fact  could  not 
be  disguised,  and,  for  the  last  three  or  four 
months — excess  of  good  fortune  having  evidently 
turned  the  manager's  head — salaries  were  paid 
regularly  and  in  full !  This  is  not  romancing,  it 
is  plain,  sober  truth.  Such  a  thing  may  surprise 
my  readers,  especially  those  who  know  much 
about  the  stage,  but  it  cannot  surprise  them  one 
fiftieth  part  so  much  as  it  surprised  us.  •  It  com- 
pletely bewildered  the  majority  of  the  company. 
To  have  anything  more  than  five  shillings  paid  to 
them  at  one  time  seemed  to  confuse  them,  and, 
on  treasury  days,  they  went  away  from  the  theater 
with  a  puzzled  air  of  affluence  and  responsibility. 


86  ON,  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

They  had  not  been  accustomed  to  receiving 
salaries  in  that  way.  What  they  had  been  used 
to  was,  say,  two-and-sixpence  one  day,  sixpence 
at  the  beginning  of  the  next  night,  another  two- 
pence after  the  first  act,  and  eightpence  as  they 
were  going  away. 

"That  makes  one-and-four  you've  had  to-night, 
and  two-and-sixpence  last  night  makes  three-and- 
ten,  mind." 

"  Yes,  but,  hang  it  all,  you  know,  there  was 
four  shillings  owing  from  last  week,  and  five-and- 
sixpence  from  the  week  before,  that  I've  never 
had  yet." 

"  My  dear  boy,  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  talk 
about  last  week  and  the  week  before.  Do  let's 
keep  to  one  week  at  a  time.  We  can't  go  back 
to  the  Flood." 

They  had  been  accustomed  to  haggle  and  fight 
for  every  penny  they  got ;  to  dodge  and  trick  and 
bully  for  their  money  in  a  way  that  a  sixty-per- 
cent, money-lender  would  rather  lose  principal 
and  interest  than  resort  to  ;  to  entreat  and  clamor 
for  it  like  Italian  beggar  children;  to  hang  about 
after  the  acting  manager  like  hungry  dogs  after  a 
cat's-meat  man ;  to  come  down  to  the  theater 
early  in  the  morning  and  wait  all  day  for  him; 
to  watch  outside  his  room  by  the  hour  together, 
so  as  to  rush  in  the  moment  the  door  was  opened, 
and  stick  there  till  he  threw  them  a  shilling;  to 
lie  in  wait  at  dark  corners  and  spring  out  upon 


BIRDS  OF  PREY.  87 

him  as  he  passed  ;  to  run  after  him  upstairs  and 
downstairs  ;  to  sneak  after  him  into  public-house 
bars ;  or  to  drive  him  into  a  corner  and  threaten 
to  punch  his  head  unless  he  gave  them  another 
sixpence — this  last  expedient,  of  course,  being 
possible  only  when  the  actor  was  big  and  the  act- 
ing manager  little.  Fortunately  acting  managers 
mostly  were  little,  otherwise  the  profession  would 
have  died  of  starvation. 

If,  as  sometimes  happened,  they  left  the  acting 
manager  alone,  and  went  for  the  lessee  himself, 
the  latter  would  always  refer  them  to  the  former, 
assuming  for  himself  a  magnificent  indifference 
about  such  trivial  things  as  money  matters ;  and 
he  would  even  play  out  the  farce  to  the  length  of 
sending  for  the  acting  manager,  and  begging  that 
gentleman,  as  a  personal  favor  to  himself,  to  let 
Mr.  So-and-So  be  paid  without  further  delay, 
which  the  acting  manager  would  gravely  promise 
should  be  done. 

If  it  had  not  filled  one  with  shame  for  one's 
profession,  it  would  have  been  amusing  to  listen 
to  some  of  the  comedies  nightly  played  behind 
the  scenes. 

"  Look  here,"  says  the  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father, 
suddenly  darting  out  of  its  dressing-room,  and 
confronting  the  acting  manager,  who,  thinking  the 
coast  was  clear,  has  made  a  dash  down  the  pas- 
sage ;  "  look  here,  if  I  don't  have  something,  I 
don't  go  on." 


88  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  replies  the  acting  manager,  in 
a  tone  of  suppressed  exasperation  mingled  with 
assumed  sympathy,  and  glancing  furtively  about 
for  a  chance  of  escape,  "  I  really  cannot.  I  have 
not  got  a  penny.  I  will  see  you  later  on,  when  I 
shall  have  some  money.  I  must  go  now.  There's 
somebody  waiting  for  me  in  front." 

"  I  don't  care  who  is  waiting  for  you  in  front. 
I've  been  waiting  for  you  behind  for  two  nights, 
and  I  mean  to  have  some  money." 

"  How  can  I  give  you  any  money,  when  I 
haven't  got  any!  "  This  is  the  gist  of  what  he 
says.  The  embellishments  had  better  not  be 
added  here.  Realism  is  an  excellent  thing  in 
its  way,  but  a  Zola  must  draw  the  line  some- 
where. 

After  this,  seeing  that  the  actor  looks  deter- 
mined, he  begins  to  fumble  in  his  pocket,  and  at 
last  brings  out  half  a  crown,  and  presents  it — 
without  compliments. 

"  This  won't  do  for  me,"  says  the  other,  first 
pocketing  the  money ;  "  I  can't  live  for  four  days 
on  half  a  crown." 

Then  the^ acting  manager,  with  a  further  string 
of  needless  comments,  thrusts  five  shillings  into 
his  hand,  and  rushes  past,  for  he  hears  a  footstep 
on  the  stairs,  and  fears  another  onslaught. 

It  is  one  of  the  chief  characteristics  of  both 
managers  and  acting  managers  that  they  never 
do  have  any  money.  If  caught  holding  it  open 


BIRDS  OF  PREY.  89 

in  their  hands,  they  always,  from  mere  force  of 
habit,  say  they  haven't  got  any.  A  common 
answer  to  an  appeal  is  :  "I  really  haven't  got  any 
money  at  all,  my  boy;  how  much  do  you  want?" 

The  women,  of  course,  could  not  bully  for  their 
money,  but  they  showed  a  quiet,  never-tiring  per- 
sistence, more  effective  perhaps  than  all  our 
storming.  Certain  it  is  that  on  the  whole  they 
were  more  successful  than  the  men,  and  this 
might  have  been  attributed  to  their  sex's  irre- 
sistible wheedling  powers,  if  one  could  possibly 
have  imagined  such  a  thing  as  an  acting  manager 
open  to  humanizing  influences. 

Nobody  grumbled  at  this  state  of  things.  The 
pleasure  and  surprise  of  getting  any  money  at 
all  was  so  great  that  the  trouble  of  getting  it  was 
forgotten.  They  were  too  used  to  being  robbed 
of  all  their  earnings  to  mind  being  defrauded  of 
only  a  part.  An  absconding  manager  was  so 
common  a  thing  that  he  did  not  even  excite  re- 
mark. He  was  regarded  as  something  in  the 
ordinary  way  of  business,  and  his  victims  only 
sighed,  when  he  was  gone,  and  proceeded  to 
look  out  for  somebody  else  to  cheat  them. 

And  such  another  was  by  no  means  difficult  to 
find  in  my  time:  the  roll  of  theatrical  managers 
teemed  with  thieves.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
whenever  a  man  got  kicked  out  of  everything  else, 
he  engaged  as  big  a  blackguard  as  himself  for  his 
acting  manager  and  started  a  show.  It  must 


9°  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

have  been  a  profitable  game,  that  played  by 
these  swindling  managers,  and  there  was  no  risk 
of  any  kind  attending  it.  Nobody  ever  thought 
of  interfering  with  them.  If,  by  any  clumsy  ac- 
cident on  their  own  part,  they  did  get  within  the 
clutches  of  the  law,  no  harm  came  to  them. 
County  Court  judges  appeared  to  regard  their 
frauds  as  mere  practical  jokes,  and  the  worst  they 
had  to  fear  was  a  playful  admonition  of  the  "  Ah 
well,  you  mustn't  do  it  again,  you  know,"  kind. 

In  the  profession  itself,  they  were  received  with 
respect,  as  men  of  decided  talent  in  their  way. 
Even  the  most  notorious  of  them  were  treated 
with  civility,  and  care  was  taken  never  to  men- 
tion before  them  such  subjects  as  dishonesty  and 
knavery,  for  fear  of  hurting  their  feelings.  When 
actors  and  actresses  went  from  London  to  Aber- 
deen to  join  Mr.  Smith's  company,  and  found  on 
arriving  that  Mr.  Smith  was  the  same  man  who  had 
already  swindled  them  under  half  a  dozen  differ- 
ent  names  at  half  a  dozen  different  times  and 
places,  what  do  you  think  they  did  ?  Shook 
hands  cordially  with  the  gentleman,  made  some 
pleasant  observations  about  having  met  before, 
and  hoped,  in  whispers  among  themselves,  that 
he  would  not  serve  them  the  same  this  time ! 
Of  course,  on  the  first  Saturday  night,  while  they 
were  on  the  stage,  he  would  run  off  with  all  the 
week's  takings,  go  to  the  next  town,  and  advertise 
for  another  company  under  the  name  of  Jones. 


BIRDS  OF  PREY.  91 

It  was  no  light  matter  for  a  man — and  worse 
still  for  a  poor  girl — to  be  left  without  a  penny  or 
a  friend  in  a  strange  town  hundreds  of  miles  from 
home.  The  poor  players  helped  each  other  as 
well  as  they  could,  but  provincial  Pros,  are — or, 
at  least,  were — not  a  wealthy  class,  and,  after 
having  paid  their  fares  down,  and  kept  themselves 
for  a  week  or  a  fortnight,  the  most  bloated  cap- 
italists among  them  rarely  had  more  than  a  few 
shillings  remaining  in  their  pockets.  Wardrobes 
had  to  be  left  as  security  with  irate  landladies, 
and,  until  they  were  redeemed  or  replaced,  no 
other  engagement  was  possible.  Friends,  poor 
enough  themselves,  goodness  knows,  had  to  be 
begged  of.  Every  kind  of  valuable,  even  the  wed- 
ding ring,  had  to  be  pawned,  and  the  return  home 
was  made  with  troubled  faces  and  empty  hands. 

The  misery  caused  by  these  scoundrels  makes 
one's  blood  boil  to  think  of.  I  have  known  men 
and  women  forced  to  tramp  home  again  half 
across  the  kingdom,  seeking  shelter  in  casual 
wards  when  the  nights  were  too  cold  or  wet  to 
sleep  under  a  haystack.  I  have  known  actors 
and  actresses  obliged  to  sell  the  clothes  off  their 
backs  in  order  to  get  fresh  stage  wardrobes.  I 
have  known  whole  families,  after  having  scraped 
together  every  penny  they  could  get,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  join  one  of  these  companies,  come  back 
again  a  few  days  afterward,  utterly  destitute, 
and  compelled  to  sell  the  few  sticks  of  furniture 


92  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

they  had  about  the  place  before  making  another 
start.  I  knew  one  poor  fellow,  left  penniless  in 
Glasgow,  with  a  delicate  young  wife  near  her 
confinement,  and  they  had  to  come  back  to  Lon- 
don by  boat — steerage  passage — for,  after  pledg- 
ing everything,  that  was  all  they  had  money 
enough  for.  It  was  fearful  weather  in  the  middle 
of  January,  and  the  vessel  tossed  about  in  the 
Channel  for  over  a  week,  landing  them  just  in  time 
for  the  woman  to  die  at  home. 

Some  managers  saved  themselves  the  trouble 
of  running  away,  and  attempted  to  throw  an  air 
of  respectability  over  the  proceeding,  by  paying 
their  company  about  one-and-sixpence  apiece  on 
treasury  day,  stating  that  they  were  very  sorry, 
but  that  the  thing  had  been  a  failure ;  that  the 
houses  had  been  all  paper,  the  expenses  unus- 
ually heavy,  or  any  other  of  the  stock  lies  always 
on  hand.  And  he  would  think  to  comfort  them 
by  telling  them  that  he  himself  had  lost  money, 
as  though  that  were  an  unanswerable  reason  for 
their  losing  all  theirs  ! 

As  to  these  men  losing  money  of  their  own, 
that  was  impossible.  They  had  not  any  to  lose. 
Whatever  they  lost  was  somebody  else's  ;  of  that 
you  may  be  sure.  They  were  men  without  any 
capital  whatever,  and  they  made  use  of  actors 
merely  as  cat's  paws  in  a  speculation  where  all 
the  risks  were  with  the  company,  and  all  the  ad- 
vantages with  themselves. 


BIRDS  OF  PREY.  93 

The  "share  "  system  was  worse  even  than  this. 
It  meant,  in  plain  language,  that,  if  the  undertak- 
ing failed,  the  actors  shared  the  losses  amongst 
them,  and,  if  it  succeeded,  the  manager  pocketed 
the  profits. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  actors  were  then  the  least 
considered,  and  the  most  imposed  upon  of  any 
people  connected  with  the  stage.  If,  at  that  time, 
one  of  my  friends  had  started  as  a  theatrical  man- 
ager, I  might,  with  a  view  of  saving  him  un- 
necessary expense,  have  given  him  the  following 
hints: 

"You  must  pay  your  bill-poster,  or  he  won't 
stick  up  your  bills,  or,  if  he  does,  it  will  be  topsy- 
turvy. Pay  for  your  advertisements,  or  they 
won't  get  inserted.  Pay  your  carpenters  and 
sceneshifters,  or  they'll  make  it  decidedly  un- 
comfortable for  you.  Pay  your  money-takers  or 
they'll  pay  themselves;  your  gas,  or  it  will  be  cut 
off;  your  rent,  or  you  will  be  turned  into  the 
street.  Be  careful  to  pay  the  supers,  too,  or  you'll 
find  when  it  is  time  for  them  to  go  on  that 
they've  all  gone  off.  For  goodness  sake,  don't 
keep  your  charwoman  waiting  for  her  wages ; 
you'll  not  have  five  minutes'  quiet  until  she  is 
satisfied.  And  if  you  don't  wish  to  find  yourself 
in  the  County  Court  on  Monday  morning,  pay 
your  call  boy  on  Saturday  night.  You  must  pay 
these  people.  It  is  not  a  case  of  choice,  there  is 
simply  no  help  for  you  ;  if  you  don't  you'll  have 


94  OJV  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

to  shut  up  shop  in  a  couple  of  days.  But  you 
needn't  pay  any  one  else.  If  you  have  a  few  shil- 
lings left  that  you  really  don't  know  what  to  do 
with,  you  might  divide  it  among  the  actors  and 
actresses;  but  you  can  please  yourself  entirely 
about  this.  They  work  just  the  same  whether 
they  are  paid  or  not. 

"  Your  author,  by  the  by,  is  another  person 
you  never  need  pay.  Indeed,  in  his  case,  it 
would  be  positively  dangerous  to  do  so.  There 
is  no  telling  what  effect  such  a  shock  might  have 
upon  him. 

"  Your  company  will,  it  is  true,  pester  you  a 
good  deal  for  their  money,  and  grumble  and 
threaten,  but  it  never  comes  to  anything,  and, 
after  a  while,  you  get  used  to  it,  and  don't  mind." 

As  to  actors  and  actresses  taking  any  actual 
measures  for  their  own  protection,  the  idea  never 
occurred  to  them  in  their  wildest  dreams.  If  you 
suggested  such  a  thing  to  them,  it  took  their 
breath  away,  and  you  were  looked  upon  as  a  young 
man  with  dangerous  revolutionary  tendencies 
that  would  some  day  get  you  into  trouble.  It 
was  useless  for  one  man  to  attempt  to  do  any- 
thing by  himself.  I  remember  an  actor  summon- 
ing a  manager  who  had  cheated  him  out  of  seven 
pounds,  and,  after  spending  about  ten  pounds 
in  costs,  he  got  an  order  for  payment  by  monthly 
instalments  of  ten  shillings,  not  one  of  which,  of 
course,  he  ever  saw.  After  that,  it  was  next  to 


BIRDS  OF  PRE  Y.  95 

impossible  for  him  to  get  a  shop  (this  expression 
is  not  slang,  it  is  a  bit  of  local  color).  No  man- 
ager who  had  heard  of  the  affair  would  engage 
him. 

"A  pretty  pass  the  stage  will  come  to,"  said 
they,  "  if  this  sort  of  thing  is  to  become  common." 

And  the  newspapers  observed,  it  was  a  pity 
that  he  (the  actor)  should  wash  his  dirty  linen  in 
public. 

I  have  been  careful  to  use  the  past  tense  all 
through  these  remarks.  Some  of  them  would 
apply  very  well  to  the  present  time,  but  on  the 
whole,  things  have  improved  since  I  was  on  the 
stage.  I  am  glad  of  it. 


CHAPTER  X. 
I  Buy  a  Basket,  and  go  into  the  Provinces. 

UR  season  at  the  London  theater  came 
to  a  close  early  in  December,  and, 
about  the  end  of  November,  we  all  be- 
gan to  take  a  great  interest  in  the  last 
page  but  one  of  "The  Actor's  Bible."  Being 
just  before  Christmas,  which  is  the  busiest  period 
of  the  theatrical  year,  there  was  no  difficulty  in 
getting  another  shop,  for  "Useful  people," 
"  Clever  people,"  "  Talented  people,"  "  Knock- 
about people,"  "  First-class  High  Kickers,"  and 
"  Entire  Dramatic  Companies,"  were  wanted 
here,  there,  and  everywhere.  I  only  answered 
one  advertisement,  and  was  engaged  at  once ;  but 
this,  no  doubt,  was  owing  to  my  having  taken 
the  precaution,  when  applying,  of  enclosing  my 
photograph. 

I  was  to  join  the  company  a  week  before  Christ- 
mas, at  a  town  in  the  west  of  England,  where  we 
were  to  open  with  pantomine.  I  was  to  give  the 
first  week  for  rehearsals  at  half  salary,  afterward 
receiving  a  guinea  a  week  for  "  responsibles," 
traveling  expenses,  when  we  went  on  tour,  being 
paid  by  the  management. 

96 


/  GO  INTO  THE  PROVINCES.  97 

And  here  let  me  say  that  a  more  honorable  and 
courteous  gentleman  than  the  manager  of  this 
company  I  never  met.  We  did  not  even  have  to 
ask  for  our  money ;  we  were  paid  regularly,  and 
to  the  last  farthing,  no  matter  whether  business 
was  good  or  bad.  In  short,  he  was  an  honest 
man,  and  as  such  held  a  conspicuous  position 
among  the  theatrical  managers  of  that  day. 

Previous  to  leaving  London,  I  got  together  a 
small  wardrobe.  I  already  had  a  stock  of  boots 
and  shoes,  and  tights,  but  these  were  only  a  few 
of  the  things  required,  and  I  found  it  rather  an 
expensive  matter  before  I  had  done.  Varying  in 
price  from  seven  shillings  to  two  pounds,  wigs 
cost  the  most  of  anything,  and  I  had  to  buy  seven 
or  eight  of  these — a  "  white  Court,"  a  "  brown 
George,"  a  "  flowing  ringlets,"  a  "  scratch  "  (why 
called  scratch  I  haven't  the  faintest  notion),  a 
"comic  old  man,"  a  "bald,"  and  a  "flow"  for 
everything  that  one  was  not  quite  sure  about. 

I  picked  up  a  good  many  odds  and  ends  of 
costume  in  Petticoat  Lane  one  Sunday  morning. 
It  is  a  famous  place  for  theatrical  wardrobes.  I 
got  a  complete  sailor's  suit  for  five  shillings,  and  a 
suit  of  livery  for  sixteen.  Old-fashioned  swallow- 
tails and  embroidered  waistcoats,  knee  breeches, 
blouses,  pants,  hats,  cloaks,  and  swords  were  also 
to  be  had  there  in  plenty,  and  at  very  small  cost. 
My  sisters  made  me  some  more  things  (they  had 
become  reconciled  to  my  "  mad  trick  "  by  this 


98  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

time,  and  had  even  got  to  rather  like  the  idea  of 
having  an  actor  in  the  family),  and  for  the  rest 
I  had  to  go  to  a  regular  costumier's.  All  these 
articles,  together  with  a  pretty  complete  modern 
wardrobe,  a  bundle  of  acting  editions  and  other 
books,  a  "  make-up  "  box,  a  dressing-case,  writing- 
case,  etc.,  etc.,  made  a  pretty  big  pile,  and,  as 
this  pile  would  be  increased  rather  than  dimin- 
ished as  time  went  on,  I  determined  to  get  one 
big  traveling  basket  to  hold  everything,  and  have 
done  with  it. 

I  did  get  a  big  one.  I've  got  it  now.  It's 
downstairs  in  the  washhouse.  I've  never  been 
able  to  get  rid  of  it  from  that  day  to  this.  I've 
tried  leaving  it  behind  when  removing  into  new 
lodgings,  but  it  has  always  been  sent  on  after  me, 
generally  in  a  wagon  with  a  couple  of  men,  who, 
evidently  imagining  they  were  restoring  me  a 
treasured  heirloom,  have  been  disappointed  at 
my  complete  absence  of  enthusiasm.  I  have 
lured  stray  boys  into  the  house,  and  offered  them 
half  a  crown  to  take  it  away  and  lose  it,  but  they 
have  become  frightened,  and  gone  home  and  told 
their  mothers,  and,  after  that,  it  has  got  about  in 
the  neighborhood  that  I  have  committed  a  murder. 
It  isn't  the  sort  of  thing  you  can  take  out  with 
you  on  a  dark  night,  and  drop  down  somebody 
else's  area. 

When  I  used  it,  I  had  to  do  all  my  packing  in 
the  hall,  for  it  was  impossible  to  get  the  thing  up 


I  GO  INTO  THE  PROVINCES.  99 

and  down  stairs.  It  always  stood  just  behind  the 
front  door,  which  left  about  six  inches  of  space 
for  people  to  squeeze  past,  and  every  one  that 
came  in  got  more  or  less  injured.  The  owner  of 
the  house,  returning  home  late  at  night,  would 
pitch  head  foremost  over  it,  and  begin  yelling 
murder  and  police,  under  the  impression  it  was 
burglars.  The  girl,  coming  in  with  the  beer, 
would  bang  up  against  it,  and  upset  the  jug  over 
it,  when  the  whole  contents  would  become  satu- 
rated, and  smell  like  a  public-house. 

The  language  used  in.  connection  with  that 
basket  was  simply  appalling.  It  roused  railway 
porters  and  cabmen  to  madness,  and  the  savage 
way  in  which  they  rushed  upon  it  used  to  make 
my  blood  run  cold.  Landladies,  who  upon  my 
first  call  had  welcomed  me  with  effusion,  grew 
cool  and  distant  when  the  basket  arrived.  No- 
body had  a  good  word  for  it.  Everywhere,  it 
was  hated  and  despised.  I  even  feared  that  some 
day  its  victims  would  rise  up  and  sweep  it  from 
the  face  of  the  earth.  But  no,  it  has  survived 
both  curses  and  kicks,  and  feeling  it  is  hopeless 
ever  to  expect  to  get  rid  of  it,  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  be  buried  in  it. 

Faithful  old  basket  !  it  is  a  good  many  years 
since  you  and  I  started  on  our  travels  that  snowy 
seventeenth  of  December,  and  what  a  row  we  had 
with  the  cabman,  ah  me!  But  why  did  you 
desert  me  at  Bristol  ?  Why  did  you— 


100  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

But  stay,  wherefore  should  I  go  on  apostro- 
phizing the  miserable  old  thing  in  this  imbecile 
manner.  And  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  why 
too  should  I  sit  here  sucking  the  end  of  my  pen 
and  scowling  savagely  at  the  lamp,  in  the  agonies 
of  composition,  when  "copy,"  which  one  of  Field 
&  Tuer's  devils  is  plaguing  me  for  (I  do  wish 
they'd  send  a  boy  who  couldn't  whistle),  is  lying 
ready  to  my  hand  ? 

Before  me,  borrowed  for  reference  in  penning 
these  reminiscences,  is  a  pile  of  letters,  written 
during  my  travels  to  my  old  pal,  Jim.  Here's 
one  : 

"DEAR  JIM  : 

"  We  (the  basket  and  I)  had  a  terribly  cold 
journey  down.  Lost  the  basket  at  Bristol  and  had 
to  telegraph  after  it.  That  basket  will  be  the 
death  of  me,  I  know.  There  is  one  advantage, 
though  ;  it  stamps  you  as  an  actor  at  once,  and 
the  porters  don't  expect  any  gratuities.  Got  jolly 
lodgings  here.  Nice,  big  bedroom,  use  of  sitting- 
room,  full  attendance,  and  cooking  for  four  bob  a 
week.  Pleasant,  homely  people,  everything  as 
clean  as  a  new  pin,  and  daughter  rather  pretty. 

"  I  should  have  written  before,  but  we  have  been 
so  busy.  Two  and  sometimes  three  rehearsals 
a  day,  to  say  nothing  of  painting  the  scenery,  at 
which  we  all  assisted.  We  had  a  crowded  house 
for  the  opening  on  Boxing  night,  and  have  had 
very  fair  ones  ever  since — all  over  fifteen  pounds. 


/  GO  INTO  THE  PROVINCES.  IOI 

Sergeant  Parry  was  in  the  stalls  the  other  night, 
and  a  big  London  actor,  whose  name  I  forget  just 
now.  We  (I  say  '  we '  because  we  all  help  in 
everything — two  of  us  went  out  early  a  morning 
or  two  ago  bill-posting:  we've  got  a  regular  bill- 
poster, but  it's  his  week  for  being  drunk) — we, 
then,  had  a  good  deal  of  trouble  training  the 
supers  and  ballet.  You  should  hear  the  supers 
dance  :  you  can  do  so  easily  a  mile  off.  They 
shake  the  whole  building.  Both  they  and  the 
ballet  are  drawn  from  the  fishing  population  of 
the  town,  and  this  is  their  first  appearance  on  any 
stage.  The  ballet  consists  of  eight  at  present, 
but  that  is  only  for  the  first  go  off,  we  shall 
reduce  it  to  six  in  a  little  while.  We  have  also 
got  about  a  dozen  children  to  do  a  May-pole 
dance.  It's  a  treat  to  see  them.  They  are  paid 
threepence  a  night,  but  they  get  three  shillings' 
worth  of  enjoyment  out  of  it  for  themselves. 
There  is  one  little  girl  with  the  face  of  an  angel 
— I  honestly  confess  I've  never  seen  an  angel's 
face,  and  don't  suppose  I  ever  shall  till  I  die,  but 
I  think  it  is  that  sort  of  face.  She  is  dressed  by 
seven  every  evening,  and,  from  then,  till  she  goes 
on  the  stage  at  ten,  she  is  dancing  and  singing  on 
her  own  account  all  over  the  place.  When  the 
May-pole  is  at  last  set  up,  she  stands  and  gazes  at 
it  open-mouthed,  and  laughs  to  herself  with  glee. 
In  her  excitement,  she  always  dances  round  the 
wrong  way,  and  with  the  wrong  boy — but  it's 


102  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

always  the  same  wrong  boy,  that  is  what  makes 
it  extraordinary.  Happy  wrong  boy,  only  he 
doesn't  know  he's  happy ;  he  is  so  small.  After 
the  dance,  the  little  boys  kiss  the  little  girls.  You 
ought  to  see  this  little  fairy  turn  aside  and  giggle, 
and  push  her  little  lover  away.  The  boys  are 
awfully  shy  over  the  business,  but  the  little  girls 
don't  seem  a  bit  afraid.  Such  is  the  superiority 
of  woman  over  man  ? 

"  The  pantomime  dresses  all  come  from  Lon- 
don, and  are  quite  handsome  and  costly.  The 
piece  is  Whittington  and  his  Cat,  written  by  the 
stage  manager  here,  but  it  is  nearly  all  songs  and 
dances,  and  what  little  is  spoken  is  more  gag  than 
book.  I've  two  songs  in  one  of  my  parts,  and  one 
in  the  other.  I  suppose  singing  is  easy  enough 
when  you  are  used  to  it.  It  is  the  orchestra  that 
puts  me  out,  though.  I  should  feel  much  freer 
without  the  music.  We  give  them  plenty  of 
topical  allusions  on  burning  local  questions,  being 
careful,  of  course,  to  follow  Mr.  Pickwick's  advice, 
and  'shout  with  the  crowd/  It  fetches  them 
immensely.  The  enthusiasm  created  nightly  by  a 
reference  to  the  new  lamp-post  in  the  High  Street 
is  tremendous. 

"  Our  low  comedian  is  teaching  me  dancing, 
and  I  practice  for  about  an  hour  a  day.  It's  ter- 
ribly hard  work,  but  I  can  nearly  do  a  hornpipe 
already.  I  want  to  do  that :  there  is  nothing 
knocks  a  country  audience  like  a  hornpipe. 


/  GO  INTO   THE  PROVIXCES.  103 

"  The  stage  manager  is  a  surly  fellow,  of  course : 
but  the  manager  himself  is  a  brick,  and  treats  us 
— the  actors — with  as  much  respect  as  if  we  were 
stage  carpenters;  and  money  is  safe.  Our  lead- 
ing man  has  never  turned  up,  so  his  part  has  been 
cut  out,  and  this  has  not  improved  the  plot.  I 
play  a  lazy  clerk  in  the  opening  (it's  like  going 
back  to  the  old  Civil  Service  days),  and  also 
prime  minister  of  Tittattoo  ;  having  only  three 
minutes  for  change.  I  get  some  legitimate  fun 
out  of  the  prime  minister,  but  the  clerk  does  not 
require  artistic  acting.  I  pretend  to  go  to  sleep, 
and  then  the  clown,  who  plays  another  clerk 
catches  me  over  the  head  with  a  clapper,  and 
then  I  wake  up  and  catch  him  over  the  head  with 
the  clapper,  and  then  ha  rushes  at  me  and  hits 
me,  and  I  take  the  nap  from  him,  and  then  he 
takes  a  nap  from  me  (it  wakes  you  up,  this  sort 
of  nap,  I  tell  you),  after  which,  we  both  have  a 
grand  struggle  with  the  cat.  I  fell  on  my  head 
the  other  night  (lucky  it  wasn't  any  other  part 
of  me),  and  broke  a  chair  in  the  course  of  this 
struggle.  I  got  an  encore  for  that,  but  didn't  take 
it.  I  suppose  you  might  call  this  knockabout 
business.  I'm  glad  there  are  none  of  my  friends 
here  to  see  me.  Acting  isn't  all  making  love  in 
tights,  and  fighting  with  a  real  sword. 

"  We  play  a  drama  before  the  Panto,  on  Satur- 
day next.  Fancy  me  as  the  heavy  father,  bless- 
ing the  stage  manager  and  the  leading  lady, 


104  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

whose  united  ages  amount  to  about  eighty.  That 
is  what  I  am  going  to  do. 

"We  all  dined  with  the  manager  on  Christmas 
Day  at  his  hotel,  and  had  a  very  pleasant  even- 
ing, keeping  it  up  till  four.  We  are  each  of  us 
to  have  a  '  ben.'  before  leaving  here.  I  was 
rather  pleased  at  this  when  I  heard  it,  but  the 
others  displayed  no  rapture.  Our  walking  gent, 
told  me  he  never  lost  less  than  thirty  shillings  at 
his  benefits.  I  don't  think  I  shall  take  one.  You 
pay  all  expenses,  and  have  half  the  receipts.  The 
attraction  about  it  to  my  mind,  though,  is  that 
you  can  put  up  what  you  like,  and  choose  your 
own  parts.  I  should  like  to  have  a  try  at 
Romeo. 

"I  have  tasted  fame  and  don't  like  it.  I  have 
been  recognized  in  the  street,  and  followed  by  a 
small  crowd  of  children.  They  evidently  ex- 
pected me  to  stop  at  some  corner  and  sing. 

"  The  men's  dressing-room  at  the  theater  is  up 
in  the  flies,  and  the  only  means  of  communication 
with  it  is  by  a  ladder.  This  got  removed  the 
other  night,  so  that  our  low  comedian  couldn't 
get  down.  We  didn't  know  this,  however,  so  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  went  on  and  said, '  Behold  your 
Prince  approaches,'  and  of  course  he  didn't  come. 
So  the  Lord  Chamberlain  said  it  again,  and  the 
house  began  to  laugh  ;  and  then  an  excited  voice 
from  above  cried  out,  '  Shut  up,  you  fool. 
Where's  the  ladder?' 


/  GO  INTO  THE  PROVINCES.  105 

"  Must  '  shut  up  '  myself  now,  for  it's  half-past 
seven,  and  I'm  on  at  eight.  I'm  very  comfort- 
able down  here.  Write  soon,  old  chap,  and  give 
us  all  the  news.  Have  you  seen  dear  little ?  " 

Oh  !  the  rest  has  nothing  to  do  with  theatrical 
matters. 


CHAPTER  XL 

First  Provincial  Experiences. 

THOUGHT  I  was  safe  for  the  summer 
with  this  company,  and  congratulated 
myself  upon  having  found  such  good 
quarters.  The  glorious  uncertainty  of 
the  boards,  however,  almost  rivals  that  of  the 
turf.  From  one  reason  and  another,  we  broke  up 
without  ever  going  on  tour,  so  that,  two  months 
after  leaving  London,  I  found  myself  back  there 
again  on  my  way  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
kingdom  to  join  another  company. 

But,  short  as  was  my  first  country  engagement, 
it  gave  me  a  pretty  good  insight  into  what  pro- 
vincial work  was  like.  The  following  is  from  one 
of  my  letters,  written  after  about  a  fortnight's 
experience  of  this  work,  which  did  not  begin 
until  the  pantomime  was  withdrawn  : 

"  The  panto,  is  over.  I  wasn't  by  any  means 
fond  of  it,  but  I'm  sorry  for  one  thing.  While  it 
was  running,  you  see,  there  was  no  study  or 
rehearsal,  and  we  had  the  whole  day  free,  and 
could — and  did — enjoy  ourselves.  But  no  skat- 


PROVINCIAL  EXPERIENCES.          107 

ing  parties  now  !  no  long  walks!  no  drives  !  no 
getting  through  a  novel  in  one  day!  We  play  at 
least  two  fresh  pieces  every  night  and  sometimes 
three.  Most  of  them  here  already  know  their 
parts  as  well  as  they  know  their  alphabet,  but 
everything  is  new  to  me,  and  it  is  an  awful  grind. 
I  can  never  tell  until  one  night  what  I'm  going  to 
play  the  next.  The  cast  is  stuck  up  by  the  stage 
door  every  evening,  and  then,  unless  you  happen 
to  have  the  book  yourself,  you  must  borrow  the 
stage  manager's  copy,  and  write  out  your  part. 
If  somebody  else  wants  it,  too,  and  is  before  you, 
you  don't  get  hold  of  it  till  the  next  morning 
perhaps,  and  that  gives  you  about  eight  hours  in 
which  to  work  up  a  part  of  say  six  or  seven 
lengths  (a  '  length  '  is  forty-two  lines). 

"Sometimes  there's  a  row  over  the  cast.  Sec- 
ond Low  Comedy  isn't  going  to  play  old  men. 
That's  not  his  line;  he  was  not  engaged  to  play 
old  men.  He'll  see  everybody  somethinged  first. 
—First  Old  Man  wants  to  know  what  they  mean 
by  expecting  him  to  play  Second  Old  Man's  part. 
He  has  never  been  so  insulted  in  his  life.  He  has 
played  with  Kean  and  Macready  and  Phelps  and 
Matthews,  and  they  would  none  of  them  have 
dreamt  of  asking  him  to  do  such  a  thing. — Juv- 
enile Lead  has  seen  some  rum  things,  but  he  is 
blowed  if  ever  he  saw  the  light  comedy  part  given 
to  the  Walking  Gentleman  before.  Anyhow  he 
shall  decline  to  play  the  part  given  him,  it's  mere 


108  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

utility. — Walking  Gent,  says,  well  it  really  isn't 
his  fault  ;  he  doesn't  care  one  way  or  the  other. 
He  was  cast  for  the  part,  and  took  it. — Juvenile 
Lead  knows  it  isn't  his  fault — doesn't  blame  him  at 
all — it's  the  stage  manager  he  blames.  Juvenile 
Lead's  opinion  is  that  the  stage  manager  is  a  fool. 
Everybody  agrees  with  him  here  ;  it  is  our  rally- 
ing point. 

"  The  general  result,  when  this  sort  of  thing  oc- 
curs, is  that  the  part  in  dispute,  no  matter  what 
it  is,  gets  pitched  on  to  me  as  '  Responsibles.' 
There's  a  little  too  much  responsibility  about  my 
line.  I  like  the  way  they  put  it,  too,  when  they 
want  me  to  take  a  particularly  heavy  part.  They 
cal-1  it '  giving  me  an  opportunity  !  '  If  they  mean 
an  opportunity  to  stop  up  all  night,  I  agree  with 
them.  That  is  the  only  opportunity  I  see  about 
it.  Do  they  suppose  you  are  going  to  come  out 
with  an  original  and  scholarly  conception  of  the 
character,  when  you  see  the  part  for  the  first  time 
the  night  before  you  play  it  ?  Why,  you  haven't 
time  to  think  of  the  meaning  of  the  words  you 
repeat.  But  even  if  you  had  the  chance  of  study- 
ing a  character,  it  would  be  no  use.  They  won't 
let  you  carry  out  your  own  ideas.  There  seems 
to  be  a  regular  set  of  rules  for  each  part,  and  you 
are  bound  to  follow  them.  Originality  is  at  a  dis- 
count in  the  provinces. 

"  I  have  lived  to  see  our  stage  manager  snubbed 
— sat  upon — crushed.  He  has  been  carrying  on 


FIRST  PROVINCIAL  EXPERIENCES.         109 

down  here,  and  swelling  around  to  that  extent 
you'd  have  thought  him  a  station-master  at  the 
very  least.  Now  he's  like  a  bladder  with  the  air 
let  out.  His  wife's  come. 

"  The  company  is  really  getting  quite  famili- 
fied.  There  are  three  married  couples  in  it  now. 
Our  Low  Comedian's  wife  is  the  Singing  Chamber- 
maid— an  awfully  pretty  little  woman  (why  have 
ugly  men  always  got  pretty  wives  ?).  I  played 
her  lover  the  other  night,  and  we  had  to  Ids?  ^wo 
or  three  times.  I  rather  liked  it,  especially  as 
she  doesn't  make-up  much.  It  isn't  at  all  pleasant 
getting  a  mouthful  of  powder  or  carmine. 

"I  gained  my  first  'call*  on  Saturday,  before 
a  very  full  house.  Of  course  I  was  highly  de- 
lighted, but  I  felt  terribly  nervous  about  stepping 
across  when  the  curtain  was  pulled  back.  I  kept 
thinking,  '  Suppose  it's  a  mistake,  and  they  don't 
want  me.'  They  applauded,  though,  the  moment 
I  appeared,  and  then  I  was  all  right.  It  was  for 
a  low  comedy  part — Jacques  in  Tlie  Honeymoon. 
I  always  do  better  in  low  comedy  than  in  any- 
thing else,  and  everybody  tells  me  I  ought  to 
stick  to  it.  But  that  is  just  what  I  don't  want  to 
do.  It  is  high  tragedy  that  I  want  to  shine  in.  I 
don't  like  low  comedy  at  all.  I  would  rather 
make  the  people  cry  than  laugh. 

"  There  is  one  little  difficulty  that  I  have  to 
contend  with  at  present  in  playing  comedy,  and 
that  is  a  tendency  to  laugh  myself  when  I  hear 


110  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

the  house  laughing.  I  suppose  I  shall  get  over 
this  in  time,  but  now,  if  I  succeed  in  being  at  all 
comical,  it  tickles  me  as  much  as  it  does  the  audi- 
ence, and,  although  I  could  keep  grave  enough 
if  they  didn't  laugh,  the  moment  they  start  I  want 
to  join  in.  But  it  is  not  only  at  my  own  doings 
that  I  am  inclined  to  laugh.  Anything  funny  on 
the  stage  amuses  me,  and  being  mixed  up  in  it 
makes  no  difference.  I  played  Frank  to  our  Low 
Comedian's  Major  de  Boots  the  other  night.  He 
was  in  extra  good  form  and  very  droll,  and  I 
could  hardly  go  on  with  my  part  for  laughing  at 
him.  Of  course,  when  a  piece  is  played  often,  one 
soon  ceases  to  be  amused  ;  but  here,  where  each 
production  enjoys  a  run  of  one  consecutive  night 
only,  the  joke  does  not  pall. 

"  There  is  a  man  in  the  town  who  has  been  to 
the  theater  regularly  every  night  since  we  opened. 
The  pantomime  ran  a  month,  and  he  came  all 
through  that.  I  know  I  was  sick  enough  of  the 
thing  before  it  was  over,  but  what  I  should  have 
been  sitting  it  out  from  beginning  to  end  every 
evening,  I  do  not  like  to  think.  Most  of  our  pa- 
trons, though,  are  pretty  regular  customers.  The 
theater-going  population  of  the  town  is  small  but 
determined.  Well,  you  see,  ours  is  the  only 
amusement  going.  There  was  a  fat  woman  came 
last  week,  but  she  did  not  stay  long.  The 
people  here  are  all  so  fat  themselves  they  thought 
nothing  of  her." 


CHAPTER   XII. 

"Mad  Mat"  Takes  Advantage  of  an 
Opportunity. 

HAD  a  day  in  London  before  starting 
off  on  my  next  venture,  and  so  looked 
in  at  my  old  theater.  I  knew  nane  of 
the  company,  but  the  workmen  and 
supers  were  mostly  the  same  that  I  had  left 
there.  Dear  old  Jim  was  in  his  usual  state  and 
greeted  me  with  a  pleasant  : 

"Hulloa!  you  seem  jolly  fond  of  the  place, 
you  do.  What  the  deuce  brings  yon  here?" 

I  explained  that  it  was  a  hankering  to  see  him 
once  again. 

"  Mad  Mat  "  was  there,  too.  The  pantomime 
was  still  running,  and  Mat  played  a  demon  with  a 
pasteboard  head.  He  was  suffering  great  injus- 
tice nightly,  so  it  appeared  from  what  he  told  me. 
He  was  recalled  regularly  at  the  end  of  the  scene 
in  which  he  and  his  brother  demons  were  knocked 
about  by  the  low  comedian,  but  the  management 
would  not  allow  him  to  go  on  again  and  bow. 

"They  are  jealous,"  whispered  Mat  to  me,  as 
we  strolled  into  T/ie  Rodney  (it  would  be  unpro- 


112  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

fessional  for  an  actor  to  meet  a  human  creature 
whose  swallowing  organization  was  intact,  and 
not  propose  a  drink) — "jealous,  that's  what  it  is. 
I'm  getting  too  popular,  and  they  think  I  shall 
cut  them  out." 

The  poor  fellow  was  madder  than  ever,  and  I 
was  just  thinking  so  at  the  very  moment  that  he 
turned  to  me  and  said  : 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  mad  ?  candidly  now." 

It's  a  little  awkward  when  a  maniac  asks  you 
point-blank  if  you  think  he's  mad.  Before  I 
could  collect  myself  sufficiently  to  reply,  he  con- 
tinued : 

"  People  often  say  I'm  mad — I've  heard  them. 
Even  if  I  am,  it  isn't  the  thing  to  throw  in  a  gen- 
tleman's teeth,  but  I'm  not — I'm  not.  You  don't 
think  I  am,  do  you  ?  " 

I  was  that  "  took  aback,"  as  Mrs.  Brown  would 
put  it,  that,  if  I  had  not  had  the  presence  of 
mind  to  gulp  down  a  good  mouthful  of  whisky 
and  water,  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done. 
I  then  managed  to  get  out  something  about  "  a 
few  slight  eccentricities,  perhaps,  but — " 

"  That's  it,"  he  cried  excitedly,  "  '  eccentrici- 
ties ' — and  they  call  that  being  mad.  But  they 
won't  call  me  mad  long — wait  till  I've  made  my 
name.  They  won't  call  me  mad  then.  Mad  ! 
It's  they're  the  fools,  to  think  a  man's  mad  when 
he  isn't.  Ha,  ha,  my  boy,  I'll  surprise  'em  one 
day.  I'll  show  the  fools — the  dolts — the  idiots, 


''MAD  MAT"  HA  S  A  N  OP  FOR  TUNITY.       1 1 3 

who's  been  mad.  '  Great  genius  is  to  madness 
close  allied.'  Who  said  that,  eh  ?  He  was  a 
genius,  and  they  called  him  mad,  perhaps. 
They're  fools — all  fools,  I  tell  you.  They  can't 
tell  the  difference  between  madness  and  genius, 
but  I'll  show  them  some  day — some  day." 

Fortunately  there  was  nobody  else  in  the  bar 
where  we  were,  or  his  ravings  would  have  attracted 
an  unpleasant  amount  of  attention.  He  wanted 
to  give  me  a  taste  of  his  quality  then  and  there  in 
his  favorite  role  of  Romeo,  and  I  only  kept  him 
quiet  by  promising  to  call  that  night  and  hear  him 
rehearse  the  part. 

When  we  were  ready  to  go  out,  I  put  my  hand 
in  my  pocket  to  pay,  but,  to  my  horror,  Mat  was 
before  me,  and  laid  down  the  money  on  the  coun- 
ter. Nor  would  any  argument  induce  him  to 
take  it  up  again.  He  was  hurt  at  the  suggestion 
even,  and  reminded  me  that  I  had  stood  treat  on 
the  last  occasion— -about  three  months  ago.  It 
was  impossible  to  force  the  money  on  him.  He 
was  as  proud  on  his  six  shillings  a  week  as  Croesus 
on  sixty  thousand  a  year,  and  I  was  compelled  to 
let  him  have  his  way.  So  he  paid  the  eightpence, 
and  then  we  parted  on  the  understanding  that  I 
was  to  see  him  later  on  at  his  "  lodgings."- 
"  They  are  not  what  I  could  wish,"  he  explained, 
"but  you  will,  I  am  sure,  overlook  a  few  bachelor 
inconveniences.  The  place  suits  me  well  enough 
— for  the  present." 


114  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

Hearing  a  lunatic  go  through  Romeo  is  not  the 
pleasantest  way  of  passing  the  night,  but  I  should 
not  have  had  pluck  enough  to  disappoint  the  poor 
fellow,  even  if  I  had  not  promised,  and,  accord- 
ingly, after  having  spent  the  evening  enjoying  the 
unusual  luxury  of  sitting  quiet,  and  seeing  other 
people  excite  themselves  for  my  amusement,  I 
made  my  way  to  the  address  Mat  had  given  me. 

The  house  was  in  a  narrow  court  at  the  back  of 
the  New  Cut.  The  front  door  stood  wide  open, 
though  it  was  twelve  o'clock,  and  a  bitterly  cold 
night.  A  child  lay  huddled  up  on  the  doorstep, 
and  a  woman  was  sleeping  in  the  passage.  I 
stumbled  over  the  woman,  groping  my  way  along 
in  the  dark.  She  seemed  used  to  being  trodden 
upon  though,  for  she  only  looked  up  unconcern- 
edly, and  went  to  sleep  again  at  once.  Mat  had 
told  me  his  place  was  at  the  very  top,  so  I  went 
on  until  there  were  no  more  stairs,  and  then  I 
looked  round  me.  Seeing  a  light  coming  from 
one  of  the  rooms,  I  peered  in  through  the  half- 
open  door,  and  saw  a  fantastic  object,  decked  in 
gaudy  colors  and  with  long,  flowing  hair,  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  a  broken-down  bedstead.  I  didn't 
know  what  to  make  of  it  at  first,  but  it  soon 
occurred  to  me  that  it  must  be  Mat,  fully  made- 
up  as  Romeo,  and  I  went  in. 

I  thought,  when  I  had  seen  him  a  few  hours  be- 
fore, that  he  looked  queer — even  for  him — but 
now,  his  haggard  face  daubed  with  paint,  and  his 


"MAD  MA  T"  HAS  AN  OPPORTUNITY.       115 

great  eyes  staring  out  of  it  more  wildly  than  ever, 
he  positively  frightened  me.  He  held  out  his  hand, 
which  was  thin  and  white,  but  remained  seated. 

"  Excuse  my  rising,"  he  said  slowly,  in  a  weak 
voice,  "  I  feel  so  strange.  I  don't  think  I  can  go 
through  the  part  to-night.  So  sorry  to  have 
brought  you  here  for  nothing,  but  you  must  come 
and  see  me  some  other  time." 

I  got  him  to  lie  down  on  the  bed  just  as  he 
was,  and  covered  him  with  the  old  rags  that  were 
on  it.  He  lay  still  for  a  few  minutes,  then  he 
looked  up  and  said  : 

"  I  won't  forget  you,  L ,  when  I'm  well  off. 

You've  been  friendly  to  me  when  I  was  poor:  I 
shan't  forget  it,  my -boy.  My  opportunity  will 
soon  come  now — very  soon,  and  then- 
He  didn't  finish  the  sentence,  but  began  to 
murmur  bits  of  the  part  to  himself,  and  in  a  little 
while  he  dropped  asleep.  I  stole  softly  out,  and 
went  in  search  of  a  doctor.  I  got  hold  of  one  at 
last,  and  returned  with  him  to  Mat's  attic.  He 
was  still  asleep,  and  after  arranging  matters  as 
well  as  I  could  with  the  doctor,  I  left,  for  I  had 
to  be  on  my  way  early  in  the  morning. 

I  never  expected  to  see  Mat  again,  and  I  never 
did.  People  who  have  lived  for  any  length  of 
time  on  six  shillings  a  week  don't  take  long  to 
die  when  they  set  about  it,  and  two  days  after  I 
had  seen  him,  Mad  Mat's  opportunity  came",  and 
he  took  it. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Lodgings  and  Landladies. 

|HEY  charged  me  extra  for  the  basket 
on  the  Great  Eastern  Line,  and  I  have 
hated  that  company  ever  since.  Of 
course  it  was  over  weight,  but  actors 
are  good  customers  to  the  railways,  and  a  little 
excess  luggage  is  not,  as  a  rule,  too  closely  in- 
quired into.  The  myrmidons  at  Bishopsgate, 
however,  were  inexorable.  It  was  in  vain  I  tried 
to  persuade  them  that  the  thing  was  "  as  light  as 
a  feather."  They  insisted  on  sticking  it  up  edge- 
ways on  a  shaky  iron  plate,  and  wobbling  some- 
thing up  and  down  a  bar ;  afterward  giving  me 
an  absurd  bit  of  paper  with  "43.  ^d."  on  it,  which, 
I  explained,  I  didn't  want,  but  which  they  charged 
me  for  just  as  though  I  had  specially  ordered  it. 

My  destination  was  a  small  market-town  in  the 
eastern  counties,  where  I  arrived  about  mid-day. 
It  was  the  most  dead  and  alive  place  I  have  ever 
been  to.  All  eastern  county  towns  are  more  or 
less  dead  and  alive — particularlythe  former — but 
this  one  was  dreariness  personified.  Not  a  soul 
was  to  be  seen  outside  the  station.  In  the  yard 

116 


LODGINGS  AND  LANDLADIES.  1 17 

stood  a  solitary  cab  to  which  was  attached  a  limpr 
horse  that,  with  head  hanging  down  and  knees 
hent  out,  looked  the  picture  of  resigned  misery; 
but  the  driver  had  disappeared — washed  away 
by  the  rain,  perhaps,  which  was  pouring  steadily 
down.  I  left  my  belongings  in  the  cloak  room, 
and  walked  straight  to  the  theater.  I  passed  two 
or  three  green  posters  on  my  way,  headed 

"Theater  Royal,"  and  setting  forth  that  " , 

the  World-Renowned  Tragedian  from  Drury 
Lane,"  would  give  his  magnificent  impersona- 
tions of  Richard  III.  and  The  Idiot  Witness  that 
night,  and  begging  the  inhabitants,  for  their  own 
sakes,  to  "  come  early."  I  found  the  whole  com- 
pany assembled  on  the  stage,  and  looking  as 
dismal  as  the  town  itself.  They  all  had  colds  in 
the  head,  including  the  manager,  "  the  World- 
Renowned  Tragedian  from  Drury  Lane,"  who 
had  the  face-ache  into  the  bargain. 

After  a  rough  and  ready  rehearsal  of  the 
tragedy,  melodrama,  and  burlesque  to  be  played 
that  evening  (I  had  had  all  my  parts  sent  me  by 
post  before  joining),  I  started  off  by  myself  to 
look  for  lodgings,  as  I  had  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  my  own  society  would,  on  the  whole,  be 
less  depressing  than  that  of  any  gentleman  in  the 
company. 

Lodging  hunting  is  by  no  means  the  most 
pleasant  business  connected  with  touring.  It 
always  means  an  hour  or  two's  wandering  up  and 


Il8  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

down  back  streets,  squinting  up  at  windows, 
knocking  at  doors,  and  waiting  about  on  door- 
steps. You  are  under  the  impression  all  the 
while  that  the  entire  street  is  watching  you,  and 
that  it  has  put  you  down  as  either  a  begging 
letter  impostor,  or  else  as  the  water-rate  man,  and 
despises  you  accordingly.  You  never  find  the 
place  that  suits  you  until  you  have  been  every- 
where else.  If  you  could  only  begin  at  the  end 
and  work  backwards,  the  search  would  be  over  at 
once.  But,  somehow  or  other,  you  can  never 
manage  to  do  this,  and  you  have  always  to  go 
through  the  same  routine.  First  of  all,  there  are 
the  places  that  ask  about  twice  as  mudh  as  you  are 
prepared  to  give,  and  at  which  you  promise  to 
call  again  when  you  have  seen  your  friend.  Then 
there  are  the  places  that  are  just  taken,  or  just 
going  to  be  taken,  or  just  not  to  be  taken.  There 
are  the  places  where  you  can  have  half  a  bed  with 
another  gentleman,  the  other  gentleman  generally 
being  the  billiard-marker  at  the  hotel  opposite,  or 
some  journeyman  photographer.  There  are  the 
people  who  won't  take  you  because  you  are  not 
a  married  couple,  and  the  people  who  won't  take 
you  because  you  are  a  play-actor,  and  the  people 
who  want  you  to  be  out  all  day,  and  the  people 
who  want  you  to  be  in  by  ten.  Added  to  these, 
there  is  the  slatternly  woman,  who  comes  to  the 
door,  followed  by  a  mob  of  dirty  children,  that 
cling  to  her  skirts  and  regard  you  with  silent  hor- 


LODGLVGS  AND  LANDLADIES.  119 

ror,  evidently  thinking  that  the  "  big  ugly  man," 
so  often  threatened,  has  really  come  this  time. 
Or  the  fool  of  a  husband,  who  scratches  his  head 
and  says  you  had  better  call  again,  when  his 
"  missus  "  is  in.  Or,  most  aggravating  of  all,  the 
woman  who  stands  on  the  step,  after  you  have 
gone,  and  watches  you  down  the  street,  so  that 
you  don't  like  to  knock  anywhere  else. 

All  this  I  was  prepared  for  when  I  started,  but 
no  such  ordeal  was  in  store  for  me.  The  difficulty 
of  selecting  lodgings  was  got  rid  of  altogether  in 
the  present  case  by  there  simply  being  no  lodg- 
ings of  any  kind  to  be  let.  It  had  evidently 
never  occurred  to  the  inhabitants  of  this  delight- 
ful spot  that  any  human  being  could  possibly  de- 
sire to  lodge  there,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  it. 
There  were  a  couple  of  inns  in  the  High  Street, 
but  country  actors  cannot  afford  inns,  however 
moderate,  and  of  "Furnished  Apartments"  or 
"  Bed  Rooms  for  Single  Gentlemen  "  there  were 
none.  I  explored  every  street  in  the  town  with- 
out coming  across  a  single  bill,  and  then,  as  a  last 
resource,  I  went  into  a  baker's  shop  to  inquire. 
I  don't  know  why  bakers  should  be  better  ac- 
quainted than  any  other  tradesmen  with  the 
private  affairs  of  their  neighbors,  but  that  they 
are  has  always  been  my  impression,  or,  at  least, 
had  been  up  till  then,  when  it  received  a  rude 
blow.  I  asked  two  bakers,  and  both  of  them 
shook  their  heads,  and  knew  of  no  one  who  let 


120  ON  THE  STAGE-  AND  OFF. 

lodgings.  I  was  in  despair,  and  the  High  Street, 
when  I  glanced  up  and  saw  a  very  pleasant  face 
smiling  at  me  from  the  door  of  a  milliner's  shop. 
Somehow,  the  sight  of  it  inspired  me  with  hope. 
I  smiled  back,  and — 

"  Could  the  owner  of  the  pleasant  face  recom- 
mend me  to  any  lodgings?" 

The  owner  of  the  pleasant  face  looked  surprised. 

"Was  Monsieur  going  to  stop  in  the  town?  " 

On  Monsieur  explaining  that  he  was  an  actor, 
Madame  was  delighted,  and  smiled  more  pleas- 
antly than  ever.  "  Madame  did  so  love  the 
theater.  Had  not  been  to  one  for,  Oh !  so  long 
time  ;  not  since  she  did  leave  Regent  Street — the 
Regent  Street  that  was  in  our  London.  Did  Mon- 
sieur know  London?  Had  been  to  heaps  and 
heaps  of  theaters  then.  And  at  Paris!  Ah! 
Paris  !  Ah,  the  theaters  at  Paris  !  Ah  !  But  there 
was  nothing  to  go  to  here.  It  was  so  quiet,  so 
stupid,  this  town.  We  English,  we  did  seem  so 
dull.  Monsieur,  son  mari,  he  did  not  mind  it. 
He  had  been  born  here.  He  did  love  the  sleep- 
iness— the  what  we  did  call  the  monotony. 
But  Madame,  she  did  love  the  gayety.  This 
place  was,  oh,  so  sad." 

Here  Madame  clasped  her  hands — pretty  little 
hands  they  were,  too — and  looked  so  piteous,  that 
Monsieur  felt  strongly  inclined  to  take  her  in  his 
arms  and  comfort  her.  He,  however,  on  second 
thoughts,  restrained  his  generous  impulse. 


LODGINGS  AND  LANDLADIES.  121 

Madame  then  stated  her  intention  to  go  to  the 
theater  that  very  evening,  and  requested  to  know 
what  was  to  be  played. 

On  Monsieur  informing  her  that" ,  the 

World-Renowned  Tragedian  from  Drury  Lane, 
would  give  his  magnificent  impersonations  of 
Richard  III.  and  The  Idiot  Witness"  she  seemed 
greatly  impressed,  and  hoped  it  was  a  comedy. 
Madame  loved  comedies.  "  To  laugh  at  all  the 
fun — to  be  made  merry — that  was  so  good." 

Monsieur  thought  that  Madame  would  have 
plenty  to  laugh  at  in  the  magnificent  impersona- 
tions of  Richard  III.  and  The  Idiot  Witness,  even 
if  she  found  the  burlesque  a  little  heavy,  but  he 
didn't  say  so. 

Then  Madame  remembered  Monsieur  was  look- 
ing for  lodgings.  Madame  put  the  tip  of  her 
forefinger  in  her  mouth,  puckered  her  brows,  and 
looked  serious.  "  Yes,  there  was  Miss  Kemp, 
she  had  sometimes  taken  a  lodger.  But  Miss 
Kemp  was  so  strict,  so  particular.  She  did  want 
every  one  to  be  so  good.  Was  Monsieur  good?" 

This  with  a  doubting  smile. 

Monsieur  hazarded  the  opinion  that  having 
gazed  into  Madame's  eyes  for  five  minutes  was 
enough  to  make  a  saint  of  any  man.  Monsieur's 
opinion  was  laughed  at,  but,  nevertheless  notwith- 
standing, Miss  Kemp's  address  was  given  him, 
and  thither  he  repaired,  armed  with  the  recom- 
mendation of  his  charming  little  French  friend. 


122  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

Miss  Kemp  was  an  old  maid,  and  lived  by  her- 
self in  a  small  three-cornered  house  that  stood  in 
a  grass-grown  courtyard  behind  the  church.  She 
was  a  prim  old  lady,  with  quick  eyes  and  a  sharp 
chin.  She  looked  me  up  and  down  with  two  jerks 
of  her  head,  and  then  supposed  that  I  had  come 
to  the  town  to  work. 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  I  had  come  to  play.  I  was 
an  actor." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Kemp.  Then  added  severely, 
"  You're  married." 

I  repudiated  the  insinuation  with  scorn. 

After  that,  the  old  lady  asked  me  inside,  and 
we  soon  became  friends.  I  can  always  get  on 
with  old  ladies.  Next  to  young  ones,  I  like  them 
better  than  any  other  class  of  the  community. 
And  Miss  Kemp  was  a  very  nice  old  lady.  She 
was  as  motherly  as  a  barnyard  hen,  though  she 
was  an  old  maid.  I  suggested  going  out  again  to 
buy  a  chop  for  my  tea,  and  to  fetch  my  basket, 
but  she  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"  Bless  the  child,"  said  she,  "  do  run  and  take 
off  those  wet  boots.  I'll  send  some  one  for  your 
luggage." 

So  I  was  made  to  take  off  my  coat  and  boots, 
and  to  sit  by  the  fire,  with  my  feet  wrapped  up  in 
a  shawl,  while  Miss  Kemp  bustled  about  with 
toast  and  steaks,  and  rattled  the  tea  things  and 
chatted. 

I  only  stopped  a  week  with  Miss  Kemp,  that 


LODGINGS  AND  LANDLADIES.  123 

being  the  length  of  time  the  company  remained 
in  the  town,  but  it  will  be  a  long  while  before  I 
forget  the  odd  little  old  maid  with  her  fussy  ways 
and  kindly  heart.  I  can  still  see,  in  memory,  the 
neat  kitchen  with  its  cheerful  fire  in  polished 
grate,  before  which  sleek  purring  Tom  lies 
stretched.  The  old-fashioned  lamp  burns  brightly 
on  the  table,  and,  between  it  and  the  fire,  sits  the 
little  old  lady  herself  in  her  high-backed  chair, 
her  knitting  in  her  hands  and  her  open  Bible  on 
her  knee.  As  I  recall  the  picture,  so  may  it  still 
be  now,  and  so  may  it  still  remain  for  many  a 
year  to  come. 

I  must  have  been  singularly  fortunate  in  regard 
to  landladies,  or  else  they  are  a  very  much  ma- 
ligned class.  I  have  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with 
them,  and,  on  the  whole,  I  have  found  them  kind, 
obliging,  and  the  very  reverse  of  extortionate. 
With  country  landladies,  especially,  I  have  ever 
been  most  comfortable,  and  even  among  London 
ones,  who,  as  a  class,  are  not  so  pleasant  as  their 
provincial  sisters,  I  have  never,  as  yet,  come 
across  a  single  specimen  of  that  terrible  she-dragon 
about  which  I  have  heard  so  much.  To  cham- 
pion the  cause  of  landladies  is  rather  an  extra- 
ordinary proceeding,  but.  as  so  much  is  said 
against  them,  I  think  it  only  fair  to  state  my  own 
experience.  They  have  their  faults.  They  bully 
the  slavey  (but  then  the  slavey  sauces  them,  so 
perhaps  it  is  only  tit  for  tat),  they  will  fry  chops, 


124  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

and  they  talk  enough  for  an  Irish  M.  P.  They 
persist  in  telling  you  all  their  troubles",  and  they 
keep  you  waiting  for  your  breakfast  while  they 
do  it.  They  never  tire  of  recounting  to  you  all 
they  have  done  for  some  ungrateful  relative,  and 
they  bring  down  a  drawerful  of  letters  on  the  sub- 
ject, which  they  would  like  you  to  cast  your  eye 
through.  They  bore  you  to  death  every  day, 
too,  with  a  complete  record  of  the  sayings  and 
doings  of  some  immaculate  young  -man  lodger 
they  once  had.  This  young  man  appears  to  have 
been  quite  overweighted  with  a  crushing  sense  of 
the  goodness  of  the  landlady  in  question.  Many 
and  many  a  time  has  he  said  to  her,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes:  "Ah,  Mrs.  So-and-so,  you  have  been 
more  than  a  mother  to  me  "  ;  and  then  he  has 
pressed  her  hand,  and  felt  he  could  never  repay 
her  kindness.  Which  seems  to  have  been  the 
fact,  for  he  has  generally  gone  off,  in  the  end, 
owing  a  pretty  considerable  sum. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
With  a  Stock  Company. 

WAS  most  miserable  with  the  company 
I  had  now  joined.  What  it  was  like 
may  be  gathered  from  the  following  : 


"  DEAR  JIM  :  If  I  stop  long  with  this  company 
I  shall  go  mad  (not  very  far  to  go,  perhaps  you'll 
say  !).  I  must  get  out  of  it  soon.  It's  the  most 
wretched  affair  you  could  possibly  imagine. 
Crummles's  show  was  a  Comedie  Fran$aise  in  its 
arrangements  compared  with  this.  We  have 
neither  stage-manager  nor  acting-manager.  If 
this  were  all,  I  shouldn't  grumble ;  but  we  have 
to  do  our  own  bill  posting,  help  work  the 
scenes,  and  take  the  money  at  the  doors — not  an 
arduous  task  this  last.  There  are  no  '  lines.' 
We  are  all  '  responsibles,'  and  the  parts  are  dis- 
tributed among  us  with  the  utmost  impartiality. 
In  the  matter  of  salary,  too,  there  is  the  same 
charming  equality;  we  all  get  a  guinea.  In 
theory,  that  is  :  in  reality,  our  salaries  vary  ac- 
cording to  our  powers  of  nagging;  the  maximum 
ever  attained  by  any  one  having  been  fifteen 


126$  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

shillings.  I  wonder  we  got  any,  though,  con- 
sidering the  audiences  we  play  to.  The  mere 
sight  of  the  house  gives  one  the  horrors  every 
night.  It  is  so  dimly  lighted  (for,  to  save  ex- 
pense, the  gas  is  only  turned  a  quarter  on)  that 
you  can  hardly  see  your  way  about,  and  so  empty, 
that  every  sound  echoes  and  re-echoes  through 
the  place,  till  it  seems  as  though  a  dozen  people 
are  talking  in  a  scene  where  there  are  only  two. 
You  walk  on  the  stage,  and  there  in  front  of  you 
are,  say,  twenty  people  dotted  about  the  pit,  a 
few  more  are  lolling  listlessly  over  the  gallery 
rails,  and  there  are  two  or  three  little  groups 
in  the  boxes,  while,  as  a  background  to  these 
patches  of  unhappy  humanity,  there  stares  out 
the  bare  boards  and  the  dingy  upholstery.  It  is 
impossible  toact among  such  surroundings  as  these. 
All  you  can  do  is  to  just  drag  through  your  part, 
and  the  audience,  who  one  and  all  have  evidently 
been  regretting  from  the  very  first  that  they  ever 
came — a  fact  they  do  not  even  attempt  to  dis- 
guise— are  as  glad  when  it  is  over  as  you  are. 
We  stop  a  week  in  each  town  and  play  the 
same  pieces,  so,  of  course,  there  is  no  study  or 
rehearsal  now.  But  I  wish  there  were  ;  anything 
would  be  better  than  this  depressing  monotony. 
"  I  might  have  guessed  what  sort  of  a  company 
it  was  by  his  sending  me  the  parts  he  did.  I  play 
Duncan,  Banquo,  Seyton,  and  a  murderer  in  Mac- 
beth ;  Tybalt  and  the  Apothecary  in  Romeo  and 


WITH  A    STOCK  COMPANY.  127 

Juliet;  and  Laertes,  Osric,  and  the  Second  Player 
in  Hamlet— and  so  on  all  through.  None  of  us 
play  less  than  two  parts  in  the  same  piece.  No 
sooner  are  we  killed  or  otherwise  disposed  of  as 
one  person,  than  we  are  up  again  as  somebody 
else,  and  that,  almost  before  we  have  time  to 
change  our  clothes.  I  sometimes  have  to  come 
on  as  an  entirely  new  party  with  no  other  change 
than  the  addition  of  a  beard.  It  puts  me  in 
mind  of  the  nigger  who  borrowed  his  master's 
hat  with  the  idea  of  passing  himself  off  as  '  one  of 
them  white  folks.'  I  should  think  that  if  the 
audience — when  there  are  any — attempt  to  under- 
stand the  play,  they  must  have  a  lively  time  of  it ; 
and  if  they  are  at  all  acquainted  with  our  National 
Bard,  they  must  be  still  more  puzzled.  We  have 
improved  so  on  the  originals,  that  the  old  gentle- 
man himself  would  never  recognize  them.  They 
are  one-third  Shakespeare,  and  two-thirds  the 
Renowned  Tragedian  from  Drury  Lane. 

"  Of  course,  I  have  not  had  my  railway  fare, 
which  I  was  promised  after  joining,  and  I've  given 
up  asking  for  it  now.  .  .  ." 

I  got  a  chance  of  changing  my  quarters  after  a 
few  weeks,  and  I  need  scarcely  say  I  jumped  at  it. 
We  passed  through  a  big  town  that  was  the  head- 
quarters of  an  established  circuit  company,  and, 
hearing  that  one  of  their  "  responsibles  "  had  just 
left,  I  went  straight  to  the  manager,  offered  my- 


128  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

self,  and  was  accepted.  Of  course,  in  the  usual 
way,  I  ought  to  have  given  a  fortnight's  notice  to 
the  other  manager,  but,  under  the  circumstances, 
this  could  hardly  have  been  insisted  upon.  So  I 
made  the  Renowned  Tragedian  from  Drury  Lane 
a  present  of  all  the  arrears  of  salary  he  owed 
me — at  which  generosity  on  my  part  we  both 
grinned--and  left  him  at  once.  I  don't  think  he 
was  very  sorry.  It  saved  him  a  few  shillings 
weekly,  for  my  place  was  filled  by  one  of  the 
orchestra,  that  body  being  thereby  reduced  to 
two. 

The  company  of  which  I  was  now  a  member 
was  one  of  the  very  few  stock  companies  then 
remaining  in  the  provinces.  -The  touring  system 
had  fairly  set  in  by  this  time,  and  had,  as  a  conse- 
quence, driven  out  the  old  theatrical  troupes  that 
used  to  act  on  from  year  to  year  within  the  same 
narrow  circle,  and  were  looked  upon  as  one  of  the 
institutions  of  the  half-dozen  towns  they  visited. 
I  am  not  going  to  discuss  here  the  rival  merits  or 
demerits  of  the  two  systems.  There  are  advan- 
tages and  disadvantages  to  be  urged  on  both 
sides,  not  only  from  the  "  school "  point  of  view, 
but  also  as  regards  the  personal  interests  and 
comfort  of  the  actor.  I  will  merely  say,  with 
reference  to  the  latter  part  of  the  question,  that 
I  myself  preferred  the  bustle  and  change  of  tour- 
ing. Indeed,  in  spite  of  all  the  attending  anxie- 
ties and  troubles,  it  was  in  this  constant  change — 


WITH  A    STOCK  COMPANY.  129 

this  continual  shifting  of  the  panorama  of  scenes 
and  circumstances  by  which  I  was  surrounded 
— that,  for  me,  the  chief  charm  of  stage-life  lay. 
Change  of  any  kind  is  always  delightful  to  youth  ; 
whether  in  big  things  or  in  little  ones.  We  have 
not  been  sufficiently  seasoned  by  disappointment 
in  the  past,  then,  to  be  skeptical  as  to  all  favors  the 
Future  may  be  holding  for  us  in  her  hand.  A 
young  man  looks  upon  every  change  as  a  fresh 
chance.  Fancy  points  a  more  glow-ing  fortune  for 
each  new  departure,  and  at  every  turn  in  the  road 
he  hopes  to  burst  upon  his  goal. 

At  each  new  town  I  went  to,  and  with  each 
new  company  I  joined,  new  opportunities  for  the 
display  of  my  talents  would  arise.  The  genius 
that  one  public  had  ignored,  another  would 
recognize  and  honor.  In  minor  matters,  too, 
there  was  always  pleasant  expectation.  Agree- 
able companions  and  warm  friends  might  be 
awaiting  me  in  a  new  company,  the  lady  members 
might  be  extraordinarily  lovely,  and  money 
might  be  surer.  The  mere  traveling,  the  seeing 
strange  towns  and  country,  the  playing  in  dif- 
ferent theaters,  the  staying  in  different  lodgings, 
the  occasional  passing  through  London  and  look- 
ing in  at  home,  all  added  to  the  undoubted  delight 
I  felt  in  this  sort  of  life,  and  fully  reconciled  me 
to  its  many  annoyances. 

But  being  fixed  in  a  dull  country  town  for 
about  six  months  at  a  stretch,  with  no  other 


13°  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

recreation  than  a  game  of  cards,  or  a  gossip  in  an 
inn  parlor,  I  didn't  find  at  all  pleasant.  To  the 
staid,  or  to  the  married  members,  I  daresay  it  was 
satisfactory  enough.  They  had,  some  of  them, 
been  born  in  the  company,  and  had  been  married 
in  the  company,  and  they  hoped  to  die  in  the 
company.  They  were  known  throughout  the 
circuit.  They  took  an  interest  in  the  towns,  and 
the  towns  took  an  interest  in  them,  and  came  to 
their  benefits'.  They  returned  again  and  again  to 
the  same  lodgings.  There  was  no  fear  of  their 
forgetting  where  they  lived,  as  sometimes  hap- 
pened to  a  touring  actor  on  his  first  day  in  a  new 
town.  They  were  not  unknown  vagabonds  wan- 
dering houseless  from  place  to  place ;  they  were 
citizens  and  townsmen,  living  among  their  friends 
and  relations.  Every  stick  of  furniture  in  their 
rooms  was  familiar  to  them.  Their  lodgings  were 
not  mere  furnished  apartments,  but  "home,"  or 
as  near  to  a  home  as  a  country  player  could  ever 
expect  to  get.  No  doubt  they,  as  madame  would 
have  said,  "  did  love  the  sleepiness";  but  I,  an 
energetic  young  bachelor,  found  it  "oh!  so  sad." 

Sad  as  I  might  have  thought  it,  though,  I 
stayed  there  five  months,  during  which  time  I 
seem  to  have  written  an  immense  number  of 
letters  to  the  long-suffering  Jim.  All  that  is 
worth  recording  here,  however,  is  contained  in 
the  following  extracts : 

".  The   work   is  not  so  Inrd  now.      It 


WITH  A    STOCK  COMPANY.  131 

was  very  stiff  at  first,  as  we  changed  the  bill 
about  every  other  night,  but  I  got  hold  of  the 
repertoire  and  studied  up  all  the  parts  I  knew  I 
should  have  to  play.  It  still  comes  heavy  when 
there  is  a  benefit,  especially  when  anything 
modern  is  put  up,  as,  then,  having  a  good  ward- 
robe, I  generally  get  cast  for  the  '  gentlemanly 
party,'  and  that  is  always  a  lengthy  part.  But 
what  makes  it  still  more  difficult,  is  the  way 
everybody  gags.  Nobody  speaks  by  the  book 
here.  They  equivocate,  and  then  I  am  undone. 
I  never  know  where  I  am.  The  other  day,  I  had 
a  particularly  long  part  given  me  to  play  the  next 
evening.  I  stayed  up  nearly  all  night  over  it. 
At  rehearsal  in  the  morning,  the  light  comedy, 
with  whom  I  was  principally  concerned,  asked  me 
how  I'd  got  on.  '  Well,  I  think  I  shall  know 
something  about  it,'  I  answered.  '  At  all  events, 
I've  got  the  cues  perfect.'  'Oh!  don't  bother 
yourself  about  cues,' replied  he  cheerfully.  'You 
won't  get  a  blessed  cue  from  me.  I  use  my  own 
words  now.  Just  you  look  out  for  the  sense.' 

"  I  did  look  out  for  the  sense,  but  I'll  be  hanged 
if  I  could  see  any  in  what  he  said.  There  was  no 
doubt  as  to  the  words  being  his  own.  How  I  got 
through  with  it  I  don't  know.  He  helped  me 
with  suggestions  when  I  stuck,  such  as  :  '  Go  on, 
let  off  your  bit  about  a  father,'  or  '  Have  you  told 
me  what  Sarah  said  ?  ' 

"  Get  me  a  pair  of  second-hand  tights  at  Stinch- 


I32  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

combe's,  will  you,  and  have  them  washed  and 
sent  down.  Any  old  things  will  do.  I  only  want 
them  to  wear  underneath  others.  I  have  to  ap- 
pear in  black  tights  next  Monday.  They  make 
your  legs  look  so  awfully  thin,  and  I'm  not  too 
stout  in  those  parts  as  it  is. 

"  I  have  got  hold  of  an  invaluable  pair  of  boots 
(well,  so  they  ought  to  be,  I  paid  fifteen  shillings 
for  them).  Pulled  up  to  their  full  height,  they 
reach  nearly  to  the  waist,  and  are  a  pair  of  Ameri- 
can jack-boots ;  doubled  in  round  the  calf,  and 
with  a  bit  of  gold  lace  and  a  tassel  pinned 
on,  they  are  hessians;  with  painted  tops  instead 
of  the  gold  lace  and  tassel,  they  are  hunting 
boots  ;  and  wrinkled  down  about  the  ankle,  and 
stuck  out  round  the  top,  they  are  either  Charles 
or  Cromwell,  according  to  whether  they  are 
ornamented  with  lace  and  a  bow,  or  left  plain. 
You  have  to  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  them,  though, 
for  they  have  a  habit  of  executing  changes  on 
their  own  account  unbeknown  to  you,  so  that 
while  one  of  your  legs  is  swaggering  about  as  a 
highwayman,  the  other  is  masquerading  as  a 
cavalier.  We  dress  the  pieces  very  well  indeed 
here.  There  is  an  excellent  wardrobe  belonging 
to  the  theater. 

"  I  do  wish  it  were  possible  to  get  the  pro- 
grammes made  out  by  intelligent  men,  instead  of 
by  acting-managers.  If  they  do  ever  happen,  by 
some  strange  accident,  not  to  place  your  name 


WITH  A    STOCK  COMPANY.  133 

opposite  the  wrong  character,  they  put  you  down 
for  a  part  that  never  existed  ;  and  if  they  get 
the  other  things  right,  they  spell  your  name 
wrong. 

"  I  say,  here's  a  jolly  nice  thing,  you  know ; 
they've  fined  me  half  a  crown  for  not  attending 
rehearsal.  Why,  I  was  there  all  the  while,  only  I 
was  over  the  way,  and  when  I  came  back  they  had 
finished.  That's  our  fool  of  a  prompter,  that  is; 
he  knew  where  I  was.  I'll  serve  him  out." 


CHAPTER  XV. 
Revenge  ! 

SORE  extracts : 

"...  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to 
trouble  you  to  get  me  another  wig.  I 
thought  my  own  hair  would  do  for 
modern  juvenile  parts,  but  it  isn't  considered 
light  enough.  '  Be  virtuous  and  you  will  have 
hair  the  color  of  tow,'  seems  to  be  the  basis  of 
the  whole  theatrical  religion.  I  wish  I  could  be 
as  economical  in  wigs  as  our  First  Old  Man  is. 
He  makes  one  do  for  everything.  He  wears  it 
the  right  way  when  he  is  a  serious  old  man,  and 
hind  part  foremost  when  he  wants  to  be  funny. 

"Talking  of  wigs  puts  me  in  mind  of  an  acci- 
dent our  manager  had  the  other  night.  He  is 
over  fifty,  but  he  fancies  he  is  a  sort  of  Charles 
Mathevvs,  and  will  play  young  parts.  So  on  Satur- 
day evening  he  came  on  as  the  lover  in  an  old 
English  comedy,  wearing  one  of  those  big  three- 
cornered  hats..  'Who  is  that  handsome  young 
man  with  the  fair  hair?'  says  the  heroine  to  her 
confidante.  'Oh,  that,  why  that  is  Sir  Harry 
Monfort,  the  gallant  young  gentleman  who  saved 


REVENGE!  135 

the  Prince's  life.  He  is  the  youngest  officer  in 
the  camp,  but  already  the  most  famous.'  'Brave 
boy,'  murmurs  the  heroine  ;  '  I  would  speak  a 
word  with  him.  Call  him  hither,  Lenora.'  So 
Lenora  called  him  thither,  and  up  he  skipped. 
When  the  heroine  spoke  to  him,  he  was  quite 
overcome  with  boyish  bashfulness.  '  Ah,  madam,' 
sighed  he,  taking  off  his  hat  and  making  a  sweep- 
ing bow — 'What  the  devil's  the  matter?  What 
are  they  laughing  at  ?  Oh  my — 

"  He  had  taken  his  wig  off  with  his  hat,  and 
there  was  the  '  brave  boy's '  poor  old  bald  head 
exposed  to  the  jeers  of  a  ribald  house. 

"  I'd  half  a  mind  to  rush  up  to  town  last  week. 
I  was  out  of  the  bill  for  three  nights  running. 
But  the  mere  railway  fare  would  have  cost  me 
nearly  half  a  week's  salary,  so  I  contented  my- 
self with  a  trip  over  to  R and  a  look  in  at  the 

show  there.  I  met  W .  He's  married  little 

Polly ,  who  was  walking  lady  at .  She  is 

up  at  Aberdeen  now,  and  he  hasn't  seen  her  for 
over  three  months.  Rather  rough  on  a  young 
couple  who  haven't  been  married  a  year.  The  old 
ones  bear  up  against  this  sort  of  thing  very  well 
indeed,  but  poor  W—  -  is  quite  upset  about  it. 
They  kept  together  as  long  as  they  could,  but 
business  got  so  bad  that  they  had  to  separate,  and 
each  take  the  first  thing  that  offered.  .  .  ." 

"You    remember    my    telling    you    how   our 


I36  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

prompter  got  me  fined  for  not  attending  a  re- 
hearsal some  time  ago.  I  said  I  would  serve  him 
out,  and  so  I  have.  Or  rather  we  have — I  and 
one  of  the  others  who  had  a  score  against  him— 
for  he's  a  bumptious,  interfering  sort  of  fellow, 
and  makes  himself  disagreeable  to  everybody. 
He  is  awful  spoons  on  a  Miss  Pinkeen,  whose 
father  keeps  an  ironmonger's  shop  next  door  to 
the  theater.  The  old  man  knows  nothing  about 
it,  and  they  are  up  to  all  kinds  of  dodges  to  get  a 
word  with  each  other.  Now,  one  of  our  dressing- 
room  windows  is  exactly  opposite  their  staircase 
window,  and  he  and  the  girl  often  talk  across; 
and,  once  or  twice,  he  has  placed  a  plank  between 
the  two  windows,  and  crawled  along  it  into  the 
house  when  her  father  has  been  away.  Well,  we 
got  hold  of  a  bit  of  this  girl's  writing  the  other 
day,  and  forged  a  letter  to  him,  saying  that  her 
father  had  gone  out,  and  that  she  wanted  to  see 
him  very  particularly,  and  that  he  was  to  come 
over  through  the  window  and  wait  on  the  land- 
ing till  she  came  upstairs.  Then,  just  before  re- 
hearsal, we  went  out  and  gave  a  stray  boy  two- 
pence to  take  it  in  to  him. 

"  Of  course  no  sooner  did  we  see  that  he  was 
fairly  inside  the  house,  and  out  of  sight,  than  we 
pulled  the  board  in  and  shut  our  window.  It 
got  quite  exciting  on  the  stage  as  time  went 

by.     '  Where's ? '  fumed  the  stage  manager. 

'  Where  the  devil's ?     It's  too  bad  of  him  to 


REVENGE!  1 37 

keep  us  all  waiting  like  this.'  And  then  the  call- 
boy  was  sent  round  to  four  public  houses,  and 
then  to  his  lodgings  ;  for  he  had  got  the  book  in 
his  pocket,  and  we  couldn't  begin  without  him. 
'  Oh,  it's  too  bad  of  him  to  go  away  and  stop  like 
this,'  cried  the  stage  manager  again  at  the  end  of 
half  an  hour.  I'll  fine  him  five  shillings  for  this. 
I  won't  be  played  the  fool  with.'  In  about  an 
hour,  he  came  in  looking  thunder  and  lightning. 
He  wouldn't  give  any  explanation.  All  we  could 
get  out  of  him  was,  that  if  he  could  find  out 
who'd  done  it,  he'd  jolly  well  wring  his  neck. 

"  From  what  the  ironmonger's  boy  told  our 
call-boy,  it  seems  that  he  waited  about  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  on  the  stairs,  not  daring  to 
move,  and  that  then  the  old  man  came  up  and 
wanted  to  know  what  he  was  doing  there.  There 
was  a  regular  scene  in  the  house,  and  the  girl  has 
sworn  that  she'll  never  speak  to  him  again  for 
getting  her  into  a  row,  and  about  four  of  her 
biggest  male  relatives  have  each  expressed  a  firm 
determination  to  break  every  bone  in  his  body ; 
and  the  boy  adds,  that  from  his  knowledge  of 
them  they  are  to  be  relied  upon.  We  have 
thought  it  our  duty  to  let  him  know  these  things." 

I  find  nothing  further  of  any  theatrical  inter- 
est, until  I  come  to  the  following,  written  about 
four  months  after  the  date  of  my  entering  the 
company : 


I38  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

"  I  was  far  too  busy  to  write  last  week.  It's 

been  something  awful.  We've  got *  down 

here  for  a  fortnight.  His  list  consists  of  eighteen 
pieces — eight  '  legitimate,'  five  dramas,  four 
comedies,  and  a  farce ;  and  we  only  had  a  week 
in  which  to  prepare.  There  have  been  rehearsals 
at  ten,  and  rehearsal  at  three,  and  rehearsals  at 
eleven,  after  the  performance  was  over.  First  I 
took  all  the  parts  given  me,  and  studied  them 
straight  off  one  after  the  other.  Then  I  found  I'd 
got  them  all  jumbled  up  together  in  my  head, 
and  the  more  I  tried  to  remember  what  belonged 
to  which,  the  more  I  forgot  which  belonged  to 
what.  At  rehearsal  I  talked  Shakespeare  in  the 
farce,  and  put  most  of  the  farce  and  a  selection 
from  all  the  five  dramas  into  one  of  the  comedies. 
And  then  the  stage  manager  went  to  put  me 
right,  and  then  he  got  mixed  up,  and  wanted 
to  know  if  anybody  could  oblige  him  by  inform- 
ing him  what  really  was  being  rehearsed  ;  and 
the  Leading  Lady  and  the  First  Low  Comedy  said 
-it  was  one  of  the  dramas,  but  the  Second  Low 
Comedy,  the  Soubrette,  and  the  Leader  of  the 
Orchestra  would  have  it  was  a  comedy,  while  the 
rest  of  us  were  too  bewildered  to  be  capable  of 
forming  any  opinion  on  any  subject. 

"  The  strain  has  so  upset  me,  that  I  don't  even 
now  know  whether  I'm  standing  on  my  head  or 
my  heels ;  and  our  First  Old  Man — but  I'll  come 

*A  "  Star  "  from  London, 


REVENGE!  139 

to  him  later  on.  My  work  has  been  particularly 
heavy,  for,  in  consequence  of  a  serious  accident 
that  has  happened  to  our  Walking  Gentleman, 
I've  had  to  take  his  place.  He  was  playing  a  part 
in  which  somebody — the  Heavy  Man — tries  to 
stab  him  while  he's  asleep.  But  just  when  the 
would-be  murderer  has  finished  soliloquizing,  and 
the  blow  is  about  to  fall,  he  starts  up,  and  a  grand 
struggle  ensues.  I  think  the  other  fellow  must 
have  been  drunk  on  the  last  occasion.  Anyhow, 
the  business  was  most  clumsily  managed,  and 

R ,  our  Walking  Gent,  got  his   eye  cut  out, 

and  is  disfigured  for  life.  It  is  quite  impossible 
for  him  now  to  play  his  old  line,  and  he  has  to  do 
heavies  or  low  comedy,  or  anything  where  appear- 
ance is  of  no  importance.  The  poor  fellow  is 
terribly  cut  up — don't  think  I'm  trying  to  make  a 
ghastly  joke — and  he  seems  to  be  especially  bitter 
against  me  for  having  slipped  into  his  shoes.  I'm 
sure  he  need  not  be ;  whatever  good  his  ill  wind 
has  blown  me  has  brought  with  it  more  work  than 
it's  worth  ;  and  I  think,  on  the  whole,  taking  this 
star  business  into  consideration,  I  would  rather 
have  stopped  where  I  was.  I  knew  a  good  many 
of  the  parts  I  should  have  had  to  play,  but  as  it 
is,  everything  has  been  fresh  study. 

"  Well,  I  was  going  to  tell  you  about  our  old 
man.  He  had  always  boasted  that  he  hadn't 
studied  for  the  last  ten  years.  I  don't  know  what 
particular  merit  there  was  in  this,  that  he  should 


14°  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

have  so  prided  himself  upon  it,  but  that  he  con- 
sidered it  as  highly  clever  on  his  part  there  could 
not  be  the  slightest  doubt ;  and  he  had  even  got  to 
quite  despise  any  one  who  did  study.  You  can 
imagine  his  feelings,  therefore,  when  sixteen  long 
parts,  eleven  at  least  of  which  he  had  never  seen 
before,  were  placed  in  his  hand,  with  a  request 
that  he  would  be  letter  perfect  in  all  by  the 
following  Thursday.  It  was  observed  that  he 
didn't  say  much  at  the  time.  He  was  a  garrulous 
old  gentleman  as  a  rule,  but.  after  once  glancing 
over  the  bundle,  he  grew  thoughtful  and  abstracted 
and  did  not  join  in  the  chorus  of  curses  loud  and 
deep  which  was  being  sung  with  great  vigor  by 
the  rest  of  the  company.  The  only  person  to 
whom  he  made  any  remark  was  myself,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  standing  by  the  stage-door  when  he 
was  going  out.  He  took  the  bundle  of  parts  out 
of  his  pocket,  and  showed  them  to  me.  '  Nice 
little  lot,  that — ain't  it  ?  '  he  said.  '  I'll  just  go 
home  and  study  them  all  up — that's  what  I'll  do.' 
Then  he  smiled — a  sad,  wan  smile — and  went 
slowly  out. 

"That  was  on  Saturday  evening,  and  on  Monday 
morning  we  met  at  ten  for  rehearsal.  We  went 
on  without  the  old  man  until  eleven,  and  then, 
as  he  hadn't  turned  up,  and  was  much  wanted, 
the  boy  was  despatched  to  his  lodgings  to  see 
if  he  was  there.  We  waited  patiently  for  another 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  then  the  boy  returned. 


REVENGE!  141 

"  The  old  man  had  not  been  seen  since  Sun- 
day. 

"  His  landlady  had  left  him  in  the  morning, 
looking  over  the  '  parts,'  and  when  she  returned 
in  the  evening,  he  was  gone.  A  letter,  addressed 
to  her,  had  been  found  in  his  room,  and  this  she 
had  given  the  boy  to  take  back  with  him. 

"  The  stage  manager  took  it  and  hurriedly 
opened  it.  At  the  first  glance,  he  started  and 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  horror;  and  when  he 
had  finished  it,  it  dropped  from  his  hand,  and  he 
sank  down  in  the  nearest  chair,  dazed  and  be- 
wildered, like  a  man  who  has  heard,  but  cannot 
yet  grasp,  some  terrible  news. 

"  A  cold,  sickly  feeling  came  over  me.  The 
strange,  far-away  look,  and  the  quiet,  sad  smile 
that  I  had  last  seen  on  the  old  man's  face  came 
back  to  me  with  startling  vividness,  and  with  a 
new  and  awful  meaning.  He  was  old  and  en- 
feebled. He  had  not  the  elastic  vigor  of  youth 
that  can  bear  up  under  worry  and  work.  His 
mind,  to  all  seeming,  had  never  at  any  time  been 
very  powerful.  Had  the  sudden  and  heavy  call 
upon  his  energies  actually  unhinged  it?  and  had 
the  poor  old  fellow  in  some  mad  moment  taken 
up  arms  against  his  sea  of  troubles,  and  by 
opposing  ended  them  ?  Was  he  now  lying  in 
some  shady  copse,  with  a  gaping  wound  from 
ear  to  ear,  or  sleeping  his  last  sleep  with  the 
deep  waters  for  a  coverlet  ?  Was  what  lay  be- 


I42  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

fore  me  a  message  from  the  grave  ?  These 
thoughts  flashed  like  lightning  through  my 
brain  as  I  darted  forward  and  picked  the  letter  up. 
It  ran  as  follows: 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Hopsam, — I'm  off  to  London  by  the  3.30,  and 
shan't  come  back.  I'll  write  and  let  you  know  where  to  send 
my  things.  I  left  a  pair  of  boots  at  Jupp's  to  have  the  toe- 
caps  sewn — please  get  'em;  and  there  was  a  night-shirt 
short  last  week — it's  got  a  D  on  it.  If  they  send  from  the 
theater,  tell  them  to  go  to  the  devil ;  and  if  they  want  six- 
teen parts  studied  in  a  week,  they'd  better  get  a  cast-iron 
actor.  Yours  truly,  D . 

"  This  was  a  great  relief  to  me,  but  it  didn't 
seem  to  have  soothed  the  stage  manager  much. 
When  he  recovered  from  his  amazement,  he  said 
what  he  thought  of  the  old  man,  which  I  will  not 
repeat.  There  was  a  deuce  of  a  row,  I  can  tell 
you.  Our  Leading  Man,  who  had  consoled  him- 
self for  being  temporarily  ousted  from  his  proper 
position  by  the  thought  of  having  nothing  to  do 
all  the  time,  and  being  able  to  go  in  front  each 
night  and  sneer  at  the  '  star,'  had  to  take  the 
First  Old  Man's  place,  and  a  pretty  temper  he's  in 
about  it.  It's  as  much  as  one's  life's  worth  now, 
even,  to  sneak  a  bit  of  his  color.  Another  old 
man  joins  us  after  next  week,  but  of  course  that 

is  just  too  late  for  the  hard  work.     will  be 

gone  then.     .     .     . 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

Vieivs  on  Acting. 

QUOTE  from  two  more  letters,  and 
then  I  have  done  with  this  stock  com- 
pany. The  first  was  written  just  after 
our  star  had  set — or  rather  gone  to  the 
next  town — the  second  about  a  fortnight  later: 

"...  —  left  on  Saturday.  We  had 
crowded  houses  all  the  time  he  was  with  us,  and 
I'm  not  surprised.  It  must  have  been  a  treat  to 
these  benighted  provincials  to  see  real  acting. 
No  wonder  country  people  don't  care  much  for 
theaters,  seeing  the  wretched  horse-play  pre- 
sented to  them  under  the  name  of  acting.  It 
does  exasperate  me  to  hear  people  talking  all 
that  thundering  nonsense  about  the  provinces 
being  such  a  splendid  school  for  young  actors. 
Why,  a  couple  of  months  of  it  is  enough  to  kill 
any  idea  of  acting  a  man  may  have  started  with. 
Even  if  you  had  time  to  think  of  anything  but 
how  to  gabble  through  your  lines,  it  would  be  of 
no  use.  You  would  never  be  allowed  to  carry 
out  any  ideas  of  your  own.  If  you  attempted  to 


144  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

think,  you  would  be  requested  to  look  out  for 
another  shop  at  once.  The  slightest  naturalness 
or  originality  would  be  put  down  to  ignorance. 
You  must  walk  through  each  part  by  the  beaten 
track  of  rule  and  tradition — and  such  rule  and 
tradition !  The  rule  of  Richardson's  Show,  the 
tradition  of  some  ranting  inn-yard  hack.  To 
reach  the  standard  of  dramatic  art  in  the  prov- 
inces, you  have  to  climb  down,  not  up.  Comedy 
consists  in  having  a  red  nose,  and  tumbling  about 
the  stage  ;  being  pathetic  makes  you  hoarse  for  an 
hour  after ;  and  as  for  tragedy !  no  one  dare  at- 
tempt that  who  hasn't  the  lungs  of  a  politician. 

"  But  -  -  changed  all  that  for  us.  He  infused 
a  new  spirit  into  everybody,  and,  when  he  was  on 
the  stage,  the  others  acted  better  than  I  should 
ever  have  thought  they  could  have  done.  It  is 
the  first  time  I  have  played  with  any  one  who 
can  properly  be  called  an  actor,  and  it  was  quite  a 
new  sensation.  I  could  myself  tell  that  I  was 
acting  very  differently  to  the  way  in  which  I 
usually  act.  I  seemed  to  catch  his  energy  and 
earnestness  ;  the  scene  grew  almost  real,  and  I 
began  to  feel  my  part.  And  that  is  the  most  any 
one  can  do  on  the  stage.  As  to  '  being  the  char- 
acter you  are  representing,'  that  is  absurd.  I  can 
hardly  believe  in  any  sane  person  seriously  put- 
ting forward  such  a  suggestion.  It  is  too  ridicu- 
lous to  argue  against.  Picture  to  yourself  a 
whole  company  forgetting  they  were  merely  act- 


VIEWS  OH  ACTING.  1 45 

ing,  and  all  fancying  themselves  the  people  they 
were  impersonating.  Words  and  business  would 
of  course  be  out  of  the  question.  They  would  all 
say  and  do  just  what  came  natural  to  them,  and 
just  ivhen  it  came  natural  ;  so  that  sometimes 
everybody  would  be  talking  at  once,  and  at  other 
times  there  would  be  nobody  doing  anything. 
Such  enthusiasm  as  theirs  would  never  bow  to 
the  pitiful  requirements  of  stage  illusion.  They 
would  walk  over  the  footlights  on  to  the  heads 
of  the  orchestra,  and  they  would  lean  up  against 
the  mountains  in  the  background.  It  would"  be 
a  grand  performance,  but  it  wouldn't  last  long. 
The  police  would  have  to  be  called  in  before  the 
first  act  was  over.  If  they  were  not,  the  Leading 
Man  would  slaughter  half  the  other  members  of 
the  company;  the  Juvenile  Lead  would  run  off 
with  the  Walking  Lady  and  the  property  jewels  ; 
and  the  First  Old  Man  would  die  of  a  broken 
heart.  What  the  manager  would  do  on  the 
second  night  I  don't  know.  If  he  opened  at  all, 
I  suppose  he  would  go  in  front  and  explain  mat- 
ters by  saying: 

"  '  Ladies  and  Gentlemen, — I  must  apologize 
for  the  incompleteness  with  which  the  play  will 
be  presented  to  you  this  evening.  The  truth  is, 
the  performance  last  night  was  so  realistic  all 
round,  that  there  is  only  the  Low  Comedy  and  a 
General  Utility  left.  But  we've  a  good  many 
corpses  about  the  theater,  and  with  these,  and 


M6  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

the  assistance  of  the  two  gentlemen  mentioned, 
we  will  do  what  we  can.' 

"  Even  when  studying  in  one's  own  room,  one 
cannot  for  a  moment  lose  sight  of  one's  identity. 
A  great  actor,  creating  a  character,  doesn't  forget 
he's  himself,  and  think  he's  somebody  else.  It's 
only  lunatics  who  have  those  fancies.  But  he  is 
a  man  of  such  vast  sympathy  that  he  can  under- 
stand and  enter  into  all  human  thoughts  and 
feelings;  and,  having  pictured  to  himself  the 
character  of  the  man  he  wishes  to  represent,  he 
can  follow  the  workings  of  that  supposed  man's 
mind  under  all  possible  circumstances. 

"  But  even  this  sympathy  must  be  left  outside 
the  theater  doors.  Once  inside,  the  mind  must 
be  kept  clear  of  all  distracting  thought.  What  is 
gone  through  on  the  stage  is  merely  an  exact  re- 
petition of  what  is  conceived  in  the  study,  and  a 
cool  head  and  a  good  memory  are  the  only  reli- 
able servants  when  once  the  curtain  is  up.  Of 
course  a  man  should  feel  what  he  is  acting.  Feel- 
ing is  the  breath  of  acting.  It  is  to  the  actor 
what  Aphrodite's  gift  was  to  Pygmalion — it  gives 
life  to  his  statue.  But  this  feeling*  is  as  much  a 
matter  of  memory  as  the  rest.  -The  actual  stage 
is  too  artificial  for  emotion  to  come  to  one  natur- 
ally while  there.  Each  passion  is  assumed  and 
dropped  by  force  of  will,  together  with  the  words 
and  action  which  accompany  it.  .  .  ." 


VIEWS  ON  ACTING.  1 47 

"...  I  made  a  sensation  here  last  Tuesday. 
I  was  playing  tlie  very  part  in  which  our  Walking 
Gentleman  met  with  his  accident,  and  he  was 
playing  the  villain,  who  tries  to  stab  me  while  I 
am  asleep.  (The  Heavy  Man  has  left.  He  went 
soon  after  he  had  done  the  mischief.)  Well, 
everything  had  gone  very  smoothly  so  far,  and  I 
was  lying  there  on  the  couch  at  the  back  of  the 
darkened  stage,  and  he  was  leaning  over  me  with 
the  knife  in  his  hand.  I  was  quite  still,  waiting 
for  my  cue  to  awake,  and  wondering  if  I  could 
manage  to  start  up  quickly,  when  I  raised  my  eyes 

and  caught  sight  of  R 's  face.  I  may  have  done 

him  an  injustice.  His  expression  may  have  been 
mere  acting.  The  whole  idea  was,  perhaps,  due 
to  nothing  but  my  own  imagination.  I  have 
thought  this  since.  At  the  time  it  flashed  across 
me  :  '  He  means  to  revenge  himself  on  me  for 
having  taken  his  place.  He  is  going  to  disfigure 
me  just  as  he  was  disfigured.'  In  an  instant  I 
sprung  up  and  wrested  the  knife  from  his  hand. 

"  We  stood  there  looking  at  one  another,  and 
neither  of  us  moved  or  spoke;  he,  livid  under- 
neath his  color,  and  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 
How  long  we  kept  in  that  position  I  do  not  know, 
for  the  thud  of  the  curtain  upon  the  stage  was 
the  first  thing  that  recalled  me  to  myself.  Up  to 
when  I  had  snatched  the  knife  frorn  him,  all  had 
been  in  exact  accordance  with  the  book.  After 
that,  I  should  have  held  him  down  by  the  throat, 


1 4**  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

and  made  a  speech  of  about  eight  lines.  I  think 
our  impromptu  tableau  was  more  effective. 

"There  was  immense  applause,  and  everybody 
congratulated  me  on  my  success.  '  I  suppose 
you  know  you  cut  out  the  end,'  said  the  man- 
ager ;  '  but  never  mind  that.  I  daresay  you  were 
a  little  nervous,  and  you  acted  splendidly,  my 
boy.'  ' 

"  I  didn't  say  it  wasn't  acting,  and  neither  did 
R-  .  .  ." 

I  left  here  to  join  a  small  touring  company  as 
Juvenile  Lead.  I  looked  upon  the  offer  as  a 
grand  opportunity  at  the  time,  and  following 
Horace's*  advice,  grasped  it  by  the  forelock.  I 
therefore,  one  Sunday  morning  packed  my  basket, 
went  round  the  town  and  shook  hands  with 
everybody — not  without  a  pang  of  regret,  for 
there  are  few  human  beings  we  can  be  with  for 
any  length  of  time  and  not  be  sorry  to  say  good- 
by  to — and  then,  as  the  bright  summer's  aun  was 
setting  and  the  church  bells  beginning  to  peal,  I 
steamed  away,  or  rather  the  engine  did,  and  the 
city  and  its  people  faded  out  of  my  sight  and 
out  of  my  life. 

Sunday  is  the  great  traveling  day  for  actors. 
It  loses  them  no  time.  A  company  can  finish  at 
one  town  on  the  Saturday  night,  and  wake  up  on 

*  Not  quite  sure  whose  advice  this  is.  Have  put  it  down  to 
Horace  to  avoid  contradiction. 


VIEWS  ON  ACTING.  149 

Monday  morning  in  the  next,  ready  to  get  every- 
thing ship-shape  for  the  evening.  Or  an  actor 
can  leave  one  show  and  join  another  at  the  other 
end  of  the  kingdom  without  missing  a  single  per- 
formance. I  have  known  a  man  play  in  Cornwall 
on  the  Saturday,  and  at  Inverness  on  the  follow- 
ing Monday.  But  convenient  though  it  is  in  this 
respect,  in  every  other,  Sunday  traveling  is  most 
unpleasant,  and,  for  their  gratification,  I  can 
assure  strict  Sabbatarians  that  it  brings  with  it  its 
own  punishment. 

Especially  to  a  man  with  a  conscience — an 
article  which,  in  those  early  days,  I  was  unfortu- 
nate enough  to  possess.  A  conscience  is  a  dis- 
agreeable sort  of  thing  to  have  with  one  at  any 
time.  It  has  a  nasty  disposition — a  cantanker- 
ous, fault-finding,  interfering  disposition.  There 
is  nothing  sociable  about  it.  It  seems  to  take  a 
pleasure  in  making  itself  objectionable,  and  in 
rendering  its  owner  as  uncomfortable  as  possible. 
During  these  Sunday  journeys,  it  used  to  vex  me 
by  every  means  in  its  power.  If  any  mild  old  gen- 
tleman, sitting  opposite  me  in  the  carriage,  raised 
his  eyes  and  looked  at  me,  I  immediately  fancied 
he  was  silently  reproaching  me,  and  I  felt 
ashamed  and  miserable.  It  never  occurred  to  me 
at  the  time  that  he  was  every  bit  as  bad  as  I  was, 
and  that  I  had  as  much  right  to  be  shocked  at 
him  as  he  to  be  horrified  at  me.  Then  I  used  to 
ask  myself  what  my  poor  aunt  would  say  if  she 


15°  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

could  see  me.  Not  that  it  was  of  the  slightest 
consequence  what  the  old  lady  would  have  said, 
but  the  question  was  just  one  of  those  petty  an- 
noyances in  which  a  mean-spirited  conscience 
delights.  I  was  firmly  convinced  that  everybody 
was  pointing  the  finger  of  scorn  at  me.  I  don't 
know  which  particular  finger  is  the  finger  of 
scorn  :  whichever  it  is,  that,  I  felt,  was  the  one 
that  was  pointed  at  me.  At  every  station,  my 
exasperating  inward  monitor  would  whisper  to 
me  :  "  But  for  such  abandoned  wretches  as  you, 
all  those  porters  and  guards  would  be  sleeping 
peacefully  in  the  village  church."  When  the 
whistle  sounded,  my  tormentor  would  add  ;  "  But 
for  you  and  other  such  despicable  scoundrels, 
that  grimy,  toil-stained  engine-driver  would  be 
dressed  in  his  best  clothes,  lounging  up  against  a 
post  at  his  own  street  corner."  Such  thoughts 
maddened  me. 

My  fellow-passengers  generally  let  on  that  they 
were  going  to  see  sick  relatives,  and  I  would  have 
done  the  same  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  awful 
basket  of  mine.  But  the  inventive  faculty  of  a 
newspaper  reporter  couldn't  have  explained  away 
a  basket  the  size  of  an  average  chest  of  drawers. 
I  might  have  said  that  it  contained  a  few  delica- 
cies-for  the  invalid,  but  nobody  would  have 
believed  me,  and  there  would  have  been  a  good 
lie  wasted. 


VIEWS  ON  ACTING.  151 

But  it  is  not  only  to  people  with  consciences 
that  Sunday  traveling  presents  vexations.  Even 
you,  my  dear  reader,  would  find  it  unpleasant. 
There  is  a  subdued  going-to-a-funeral  air  about 
the  whole  proceeding,  which  makes  you  melan- 
choly in  spite  of  yourself.  You  miss  the  usual 
bustling  attributes  of  railway  traveling.  No 
crowded  platforms !  no  piles  of  luggage  !  no 
newspaper  boys  !  The  refreshment  rooms  don't 
seem  the  same  places  at  all,  and  the  damsels  there 
are  haughtier  then  ever.  When  you  arrive  at 
your  destination,  you  seem  to  have  come  to  a  city 
of  the  dead.  You  pass  through  deserted  streets 
to  your  hotel.  Nobody  is  about.  You  go  into 
the  coffee-room  and  sit  down  there  by  yourself. 
After  a  while  the  boots  looks  in.  You  yearn 
toward  him  as  toward  a  fellow-creature.  You 
would  fall  upon  his  neck,  and  tell  him  all  your 
troubles.  You  try  to  engage  him  in  conversation, 
so  as  to  detain  him  in  the  room,  for  you  dread  to 
be  left  alone  again.  But  he  doesn't  enter  into 
your  feelings  :  he  answers  all  questions  by  mono- 
syllables, and  gets  away  as  quickly  as  possible. 
You  go  out  for  a  walk.  The  streets  are  dark  and 
silent,  and  you  come  back  more  miserable  than 
you  started.  You  order  supper,  but  have  no 
appetite,  and  cannot  eat  it  when  it  comes.  You 
retire  to  your  room  early,  but  cannot  go  to  sleep. 
You  lie  there  and  wonder  what  the  bjll  will  come 


152  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

to,  and,  while  thinking  of  this,  you  are  softly 
borne  away  into  the  land  of  dreams,  and  fancy 
that  the  proprietor  has  asked  you  for  a  hundred 
and  eighty-seven  pounds  nine  and  fourpence 
ha'penny,  and  that  you  have  killed  him  on  the 
spot,  and  left  the  house  in  your  nightshirt  with- 
out paying. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
I  Join  a  "Fit-up" 

HE  show  which  I  now  graced  with  my 
presence  was  a  "  fit-up."  I  didn't  know 
this  beforehand,  or  I  should  never  have 
engaged  myself.  A  "  fit-up  "  is  only 
one  grade  higher  than  a  booth,  which  latter 
branch  of  the  profession,  by  the  way,  I  have 
always  regretted  never  having  explored.  I 
missed  the  most  picturesque  and  romantic  portion 
of  the  theatrical  world  by  not  penetrating  into 
that  time-forsaken  corner.  Booth  life  is  a  Bohemia 
within  a  Bohemia.  So  far  as  social  and  artistic 
position  is  concerned,  it  is  at  the  bottom  of  the 
dramatic  ladder;  but  for  interest  and  adventure, 
it  stands  at  the  very  top. 

However,  I  never  did  join  a  booth,  so  there  is 
an  end  of  the  matter.  The  nearest  I  approached 
to  anything  of  the  kind  was  this  fit-up,  and  that 
I  didn't  like  at  all.  We  kept  to  the  very  small 
towns,  where  there  was  no  theater,  and  fitted  up 
an  apology  for  a  stage  in  any  hall  or  room  we 
could  hire  for  the  purpose.  The  town-hall  was 
what  we  generally  tried  for,  but  we  were  not  too 

153 


154  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

particular;  any  large  room  did,  and  we  would 
even  put  up  with  a  conveniently  situated  barri. 
We  carried  our  own  props,  scenery,  and  pro- 
scenium, and  trusted  for  the  wood  work  to  some 
local  carpenter.  A  row  of  candles  did  duty  for 
footlights,  and  a  piano,  hired  in  the  town,  repre- 
sented the  orchestra.  We  couldn't  get  a  piano 
on  one  occasion,  so  the  proprietor  of  the  hall  lent 
us  his  harmonium. 

I  will  not  'linger  over  my  experience  with  this 
company ;  they  were  not  pleasant  ones.  Short 
extracts  from  two  letters,  one  written  just  after 
joining,  and  the  other  sent  off  just  before  I  left, 
•will  be  sufficient : 

"  DEAR  JIM  :  I  find  I've  dropped  the  substance 
and  grasped  the  shadow  (I  pride  myself  not  so 
much  on  the  originality  of  this  remark  as  on  its 
applicability).  I  shall,  leave  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  try  my  luck  in  London.  My  ambition  to 
play  Juvenile  Lead  vanished  the  moment  I  saw 
the  Leading  Lady,  who  is,  as  usual,  the  manager's 
wife.  She  is  a  fat  greasy  old  woman.  She  has 
dirty  hands  and  finger  nails,  and  perspires  freely 
during  the  course  of  the  performance.  She  is 
about  three  times  my  size,  and  if  the  audiences  to 
which  we  play  have  the  slightest  sense  of  humor 
— which,  from  what  I  have  seen  of  them,  I  think 
extremely  doubtful — our  love-making  must  be  a 
rare  treat  to  them.  How  a  London  first-night 


I  JOIN  A    "FIT-UP."  155 

gallery  would  enjoy  it  !  I'm  afraid,  though,  it's 
only  wasted  down  here.  My  arm,  when  I  try  to 
clasp  her  waist,  reaches  to  about  the  middle  of 
her  back ;  and,  when  we  embrace,  the  house  can't 
see  me  at  all.  I  have  to  carry  her  half-way  across 
the  stage  in  one  part!  By  Jove  !  I'm  glad  we 
don't  play  that  piece  often. 

"She  says  I  shall  never  make  a  good  'lover' 
unless  I  throw  more  ardor  ('harder,1  she  calls  it) 
into  my  acting.  .  .  ." 

".  .  .  Shall  be  with  you  on  Monday  next. 
Can't  stand  this  any  longer.  It's  ruining  me. 
Seven-and-six  was  all  I  could  get  last  week,  and 
eleven  shillings  the  week  before.  We  are  not 
doing  bad  business  by  any  means.  Indeed,  we 
have  very  good  houses.  The  old  man  has  got 
the  knack  of  making  out  good  gag  bills,  and  that 
pulls  'em  in  for  the  two  pr  three  nights  we  stay 
at  each  place.  You  know  what  I  mean  by  a  '  gag ' 
bill: 'The  Ruined  Mill  by  Dead  Man's  Pool. 
Grace  Mervin  thinks  to  meet  a  friend,  but  finds  a 
foe.  Harry  Baddun  recalls  old  days.  "  Why  do 
you  not  love  me?"  "Because  you  are  a  bad 
man.'"  "  Then  die  !  "  The  struggle  on  the 
brink!!  "Help!!"  "There  is  none  to  help  you 
here."  "  You  lie,  Harry  Baddun  ;  7  am  here." 
A  hand  from  the  grave  ! !  Harry  Baddun  meets 
his  doom  !  !  ! ' 

"  That's  what  I  mean  by  a  gag  bill. 


156  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

"  Whatever  money  is  made,  however,  he  takes 
care  to  keep  for  himself.  He  can  always  put  up 
at  the  best  hotel  in  the  place,  while  we  have  to 
pawn  our  things  to  pay  for  the  meanest  of  lodg- 
ings. 

"  It  isn't  only  actors  who  get  robbed  by  these 
managers  :  authors  also  suffer  pretty  considerably. 
We  have  two  copyright  pieces  in  our  list,  both  of 
which  draw  very  well,  but  not  a  penny  is  paid 
for  performing  them.  To  avoid  any  chance  of 
unpleasantness,  the  titles  of  the  pieces  and  the 
names  of  the  chief  characters  are  altered.  So 
that  even  if  the  author  or  his  friends  (supposing 
it  possible  for  any  author  to  have  any  friends) 
were  on  the  lookout,  they  would  never  know  any- 
thing about  it.  And,  if  they  did,  it  would  be  of 
no  use.  It  would  be  throwing  good  money  after 
bad  to  attempt  to  enforce  payment  from  the  men 
who  do  this  sort  of  thing, — and  I  hear  that  it  is 
done  all  over  the  provinces, — they  have  no  money 
and  none  can  be  got  out  of  them.  Your  penni- 
less man  can  comfortably  defy  half  the  laws  in  the 
statute  book. 

"What  a  nuisance  firearms  are  on  the  stage! 
I  thought  I  was  blinded  the  other  night,  and  my 
eyes  are  painful  even  now.  The  fellow  should 
have  fired  up  in  the  air.  It  is  the  only  safe  rule 
on  a  small  stage,  though  it  does  look  highly 
ridiculous  to  see  a  man  drop  down  dead  because 
another  man  fires  a  pistol  at  the  moon.  But  there 


/  JOIN  A    "FIT-UP."  157 

is  always  some  mishap  with  them.  They  either 
don't  go  off  at  all,  or  else  they  go  off  in  the  wrong 
place,  and,  when  they  do  go  off,  there  is  generally 
an  accident.  They  can  never  be  depended  upon. 
You  rush  on  to  the  stage,  present  a  pistol  at 
somebody's  head,  and  say,  '  Die  ! '  but  the  pistol 
only  goes  click,  and  the  man  doesn't  know 
whether  to  die  or  not.  He  waits  while  you  have 
another  try  at  him,  and  the  thing  clicks  again  ; 
and  then  you  find  out  that  the  property  man 
hasn't  put  a  cap  on  it,  and  you  turn  round  to  get 
one.  But  the  other  man,  thinking  it  is  all  over, 
makes  up  his  mind  to  die  at  once  from  nothing 
else  but  fright,  and,  when  you  come  back  to  kill 
him  for  the  last  time,  you  find  he's  already  dead. 
"  We  have  recourse  to  some  rum  makeshifts 
here,  to  eke  out  our  wardrobes.  My  old  frock 
coat,  with  a  little  cloth  cape  which  one  of  the 
girls  has  cutout  for  me  pinned  on  underneath  the 
collar,  and  with  a  bit  of  lace  round  the  cuffs,  does 
for  the  gallant  of  half  the  old  comedies  ;  and, 
when  I  pin  the  front  corners  back  and  cover  them 
with  red  calico,  I'm  a  French  soldier.  A  pair  of 
white  thingumies  does  admirably  for  buckskin 
riding  breeches,  and  for  the  part  of  a  Spanish 
conspirator,  I  generally  borrow  my  landlady's 
tablecloth.  .  .  ." 

It  was  about  the  end  of  October  when  I  found 
myself  once  more  in  London.     The  first  thing  I 


158  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

then  did  was  to  go  to  my  old  shop  on  the  Surrey- 
side.  Another  company  and  another  manager 
were  there,  but  the  latter  knew  me,  and,  as  I 
owned  a  dress  suit,  engaged  me  at  a  salary  of 
twelve  shillings  weekly  to  play  the  part  of  a 
swell.  When  I  had  been  there  just  one  week,  he 
closed.  Whether  it  was  paying  me  that  twelve 
shillings  that  broke  him,  I  cannot  say;  but  on 
Monday  morning  some  men  came  and  cut  the  gas 
off,  and  then  he  said  he  shouldn't  go  on  any  longer, 
and  that  we  must  all  do  the  best  we  could  for 
ourselves. 

I,  with  two  or  three  others,  thereupon  started 
off  for  a  theater  at  the  East  End,  which  was 
about  to  be  opened  for  a  limited  number  of  nights 
by  some  great  world-renowned  actor.  This  was 
about  the  fortieth  world-renowned  party  I  had 
heard  of  for  the  first  time  within  the  last  twelve- 
month. My  education  in  the  matter  of  world- 
renowned  people  had  evidently  been  shamefully 
neglected. 

The  theater  was  cunningly  contrived,  so  that 
one  had  to  pass  through  the  bar  of  the  adjoining 
public-house — to  the  landlord  of  which  it  be- 
longed— to  get  to  the  stage.  Our  little  party 
was  saved  from  temptation,  however,  for  I  don't 
think  we  could  have  mustered  a  shilling  among 
the  lot  of  us  that  morning.  I  was  getting  most 
seriously  hard  up  at  this  time.  The  few  pounds 
I  had  had  left,  after  purchasing  my  wardrobe  and 


I  JOIN  A    "FIT-UP."  159 

paying  my  railway  fares,  etc.,  had  now  dwindled 
down  to  shillings,  and,  unless  things  mended,  I 
felt  I  should  have  to  throw  up  the  sponge  and  re- 
tire from  the  stage.  I  was  determined  not  to  do 
this  though,  till  the  very  last,  for  I  dreaded  the 
chorus  of  "I  told  you  so's,"  and  "  I  knew  very 
well  how  'twould  he's,"  and  such  like  well-known 
and  exasperating  crows  of  triumph,  with  which, 
in  these  cases,  our  delighted  friends  glorify  them- 
selves  and  crush  us. 

The  East  End  theater  proved  a  stop-gap  for  a 
while.  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  be  one  of  those 
engaged  out  of  the  crowd  of  eager  and  anxious 
applicants,  among  whom  I  met  a  couple  from  the 
fit-up  company  I  had  lately  left,  they  having  come 
to  the  same  conclusion  as  myself,  viz.,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  live  well  and  "  dress  respectably  on 
and  off  the  stage  "  upon  an  average  salary  of  ten 
shillings  weekly.  The  engagement  was  only  for 
a  fortnight,  and  there  is  only  one  incident  con- 
nected  with  it  that  I  particularly  remember. 
That  was  my  being  "  guyed  "  on  one  occasion. 
We  were  playing  a  melodrama,  the  scene  of  which 
was  laid  in  some  outlandish  place  or  other,  and 
the  stage  manager  insisted  on  my  wearing  a  most 
outrageous  costume.  I  knew  it  would  be  laughed 
at,  especially  in  that  neighborhood,  and  my  ex- 
pectations were  more  than  fulfilled.  I  hadn't 
been  on  the  stage  five  seconds  before  I  heard  a 
voice  from  the  gallery  hoarsely  inquire  :  "  What 


160  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

is  it,  Bill?"  And  then  another  voice  added: 
"  Tell  us  what  it  is,  and  you  shall  have  it." 

A  good  deal  of  laughter  followed  these 
speeches.  I  got  hot  all  over,  and  felt  exceedingly 
uncomfortable  and  nervous.  It  was  as  much  as  I 
could  do  to  recollect  my  part,  and  it  was  with  a 
great  effort  that  I  began  my  first  line.  No  sooner 
had  I  opened  my  mouth,  however,  than  some- 
body in  the  pit  exclaimed,  in  tones  of  the  utmost 
surprise,  "  Blowed  if  it  ain't  alive  !  " 

After  that,  the  remarks  on  my  personal  appear- 
ance fell  thick  and  fast :  "  Look  well  in  a  shop 
window,  that  bloke  !  "  "  Nice  suit  to  take  your 
gal  out  on  a  Sunday  in!"  "This  style,  thirty 
shillin's,"  etc.  ;  while  one  good-natured  man 
sought  to  put  me  at  my  ease  by  roaring  out  in  a 
stentorian  voice,  "  Never  you  mind,  old  man  ; 
you  go  on.  They're  jealous  'cos  you've  got  nice 
clothes  on."  How  I  managed  to  get  through  the 
part  I  don't  know.  I  became  more  nervous  and 
awkward  every  minute,  and,  of  course,  the  more 
I  bungled,  the  more  the  house  jeered.  I  gained 
a  good  deal  of  sympathy  behind,  for  most  of 
them  had  had  similar  experiences  of  their  ow.n ; 
but  I  was  most  intensely  miserable  all  that  even- 
ing, and,  for  the  next  night  or  two,  quite  dreaded 
to  face  the  audience.  Making  game  of  any  one 
is  a  very  amusing  occupation,  but  the  "  game" 
doesn't  see  the  fun  till  a  long  while  afterward.  I 
can't  bear  to  hear  any  of  the  performers  chaffed 


I  JOIN  A    "FIT-UP."  161 

when  I'm  at  a  theater.  Actors  are  necessarily  a 
sensitive  class  of  people,  and  I  don't  think  those 
who  make  fun  of  them,  when  any  little  thing  goes 
wrong,  have  any  idea  of  the  pain  they  are  inflicting. 
It  is  quite  right,  and  quite  necessary  sometimes, 
that  disapprobation  should  be  expressed,  and 
that  unmistakably,  but  it  should  be  for  the  pur- 
pose of  correcting  real  faults.  "  Guying"  is,  as  a 
rule,  indulged  in  only  by  the  silliest  portion  of  the 
audience,  and  for  no  other  object  but  to  display 
their  own  vulgar  wit. 

After  my  fortnight  at  the  East  End,  I  went  as 
one  of  the  chorus  in  a  new  opera-bouffe  to  be 
brought  out  at  a  West  End  theater.  We  re- 
hearsed for  three  weeks,  the  piece  ran  for  one, 
and  then  I  again  took  a  provincial  engagement, 
which,  as  it  was  now  close  upon  Christmas,  was 
easy  enough  to  obtain. 

My  stay  in  London  had  not  been  very  profit- 
able to  me,  but  it  had  given  my  friends  a  treat, 
as  they  had  been  able  to  come  and  see  me  act 
again.  At  least,  I  suppose  it  was  a  treat  to  them, 
though  they  did  not  say  so.  My  friends  are 
always  most  careful  never  to  overdo  the  thing  in 
the  matter  of  praise.  I  cannot  accuse  them  of 
sycophancy.  They  scorn  to  say  pleasant  things 
that  they  don't  mean.  They  prefer  saying  un- 
pleasant things  that  they  do  mean.  There's  no 
humbug  about  them  ;  they  never  hesitate  to  tell 
me  just  exactly  what  they  think  of  me.  This  is 


162  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

good  of  them.  I  respect  them  for  saying  what 
they  think  ;  but  if  they  would  think  a  little  dif- 
ferently, I  should  respect  them  still  more.  I 
wonder  if  everybody's  friends  are  as  conscientious? 
I've  heard  of  people  having  "admiring  friends," 
and  "  flattering  friends,"  and  "  over-indulgent 
friends,"  but  I've  never  had  any  of  that  sort  my- 
self. I've  often  thought  I  should  rather  like  to, 
though,  and  if  any  gentleman  has  more  friends  of 
that  kind  than  he  wants,  and  would  care  to  have 
a  few  of  the  opposite  stamp,  I  am  quite  ready  to 
swop  with  him.  I  can  warrant  mine  never  to 
admire  or  flatter  under  any  circumstances  whatso- 
ever ;  neither  will  he  find  them  over-indulgent. 
To  a  man  who  really  wishes  to  be  told  of  his 
faults,  they  would  be  invaluable  ;  on  this  point, 
they  are  candor  itself.  A  conceited  man  would 
also  derive  much  benefit  from  their  society.  I 
have  myself. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
My  Last  Appearance. 

LEFT  London  exactly  twelve  months 
from  the  day  on  which  I  had  started 
to  fulfill  my  first  provincial  engage- 
ment, and  I  did  not  return  to  it  again 
while  I  was  an  actor.  I  left  it  with  my  baggage 
early  in  the  morning  by  the  newspaper  express 
from  Euston;  I  returned  to  it  late  at  night,  foot- 
sore and  hungry,  and  with  no  other  possessions 
than  the  clothes  I  stood  upright  in. 

Of  the  last  few  months  of  my  professional  life, 
the  following  brief  extracts  will  speak.  A  slightly 
bitter  tone  runs  through  some  of  them,  but  at  the 
time  they  were  written  I  was  suffering  great  dis- 
appointment, and  everything  was  going  wrong 
Avith  me — circumstances  under  which  a  man  is 
perhaps  apt  to  look  upon  his  surroundings  through 
smoke-colored  glasses. 

Three  weeks  after  Christmas  I  write: 

"...  Business  good  and  money  regular. 
Business  is  almost  always  good,  though,  at  panto- 

163 


164  OJV  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

mime  time  :  the  test  will  come  later  on,  when  we 
begin  to  travel.  How  a  provincial  audience  does 
love  a  pantomime  !  and  how  I  do  hate  it !  I  can't 
say  I  think  very  highly  of  provincial  audiences. 
They  need  a  lot  of  education  in  art.  They  roar 
over  coarse  buffoonery,  and  applaud  noisy  rant  to 
the  echo.  One  might  as  well  go  to  Billingsgate 
to  study  English  as  to  the  provinces  to  learn 
acting. 

"  I  played  First  Low  Comedy  on  Saturday 
night  at  half  an  hour's  notice,  the  real  First  Low 
Comedy  being  hopelessly  intoxicated  at  the  time. 
It's  a  pity,  amidst  all  the  talk  about  the  elevation 
of  the  stage,  that  the  elevation  of  actors  is  not  a 
less  frequent  occurrence.  It  can  hardly  improve 
the  reputation  of  the  profession  in  the  eyes  of 
the  public,  when  they  take  up  the  Era  and  read 
advertisement  after  advertisement,  ending  with 
such  lines  as, '  None  but  sober  people  need  apply,' 
'  Must  contrive  to  keep  sober,  at  all  events  dur- 
ing the  performance. '  '  People  who  are  constantly 
getting  drunk  need  not  write.'  I've  known  some 
idiots  actually  make  themselves  half  tipsy  on 
purpose  before  coming  on  the  stage,  evidently 
thinking,  because  they  can't  act  when  they've 
got  all  their  few  wits  about  them,  that  they'll 
manage  better  if  they  get  rid  of  them  altogether. 
There  is  a  host  of  wonderful  traditions  floating 
about  the  theatrical  world  of  this,  that,  and  the 


MY  LAST  APPEARANCE.  165 

other  great  actor  having  always  played  this,  that, 
and  the  other  part  while  drunk ;  and  so,  when 
some  wretched  little  actor  has  to  take  one  of 
these  parts,  he,  fired  by  a  noble  determination  to 
follow  in  the  footsteps  of  his  famous  predecessor, 
gets  drunk  too. 

"  Bad  language  is  another  thing  that  the  profes- 
sion might  spare  a  lot  of,  and  still  have  enough 
remaining  for  all  ordinary  purposes.  I  remember 

one  night  at we  all  agreed  to  fine  ourselves 

a  penny  each  time  we  swore.  We  gave  it  up  after 
two  hours'  trial:  none  of  us  had  any  money 
left.  .  .  ." 

Six  weeks  later : 

"...  Business  gets  worse  instead  of 
better.  Our  manager  has  behaved  very  well  in- 
deed. He  paid  us  our  salaries  right  up  to  the  end 
of  last  week,  though  any  one  could  see  he  was  losing 
money  every  night ;  and  then  on  Saturday,  after 
treasury,  he  called  us  all  together,  and  put  the 
case  frankly.  He  said  he  could  not  continue  as 
he  had  been  doing,  but  that,  if  we  liked,  he  was 
ready  to  keep  on  with  us  for  a  week  or  two 
longer  upon  sharing  terms,  to  see  if  the  luck 
turned.  We  agreed  to  this,  and  so  formed  our- 
selves into  what  is  called  a  '  commonwealth ' — 
though  common  poverty  would  be  a  more  correct 


1 66  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

term  in  my  opinion,  for  the  shares  each  night, 
after  deducting  expenses,  have  been  about  eigh- 
teen-pence.  The  manager  takes  three  of  these 
shares  (one  for  being  manager,  one  for  acting,  and 
the  other  one  to  make  up  the  three),  and  the  rest 
of  us  have  one  each.  I'm  getting  awfully  hard 
up,  though  I  live  for  a  week,  now,  on  less  than 
what  I've  often  given  for  a  dinner.  .  .  ." 

A  week  later,  this  company  broke  up,  and  I 
then  joined  another  that  was  close  handy  at  the 
time.  It  is  from  this  latter  that  the  following  is 
written : 

"...  I  just  manage  to  keep  my  head  above 
water,  and  that  is  all.  If  things  get  worse,  I  shall 
be  done  for.  I've  no  money  of  my  own  left  now. 

"A  very  sad  thing  happened  here  last  week. 
Our  leading  man  died  suddenly  from  heart  disease 
leaving  his  wife  and  two  children  totally  destitute. 
If  he  had  been  a  big  London  actor,  for  half  his 
life  in  receipt  of  a  salary  of,  say,  three  thousand 
a  year,  the  theatrical  press  would  have  teemed 
with  piteous  appeals  to  the  public,  all  his  friends 
would  have  written  to  the  papers  generously 
offering  to  receive  subscriptions  on  his  behalf,  and 
all  the  theaters  would  have  given  performances  at 
double  prices  to  help  pay  his  debts  and  funeral 
expenses.  As,  however,  he  had  never  earned 


MY  LAST  APPEARANCE.  167 

anything  higher  than  about  two  pounds  a  week, 
Charity  could  hardly  be  expected  to  interest  her- 
self about  the  case ;  and  so  the  wife  supports 
herself  and  her  children  by  taking  in  washing. 
Not  that  I  believe  she  would  ask  for  alms,  even 
were  there  any  chance  of  her  getting  them,  for, 
when  the  idea  was  only  suggested  to  her,  she  quite 
fired  up,  and  talked  some  absurd  nonsense  about 
having  too  much  respect  for  her  husband's  pro- 
fession to  degrade  it  into  a  mere  excuse  for 
begging.  .  .  ." 

This  company  also  went  wrong.  It  was  a  ter- 
rible year  for  theaters.  Trade  was  bad  every- 
where, and  "amusements  "  was  the  very  first  item 
that  people  with  diminishing  incomes  struck  out 
of  the  list  of  their  expenditure.  One  by  one  I 
parted  with  every  valuable  I  had  about  me,  and  a 
visit  to  the  pawnshop,  just  before  leaving  each 
town,  became  as  essential  as  packing.  I  went 
through  the  country  like  a  distressed  ship  through 
troubled  waters,  marking  my  track  by  the  riches 
I  cast  overboard  to  save  myself.  My  watch  I  left 
behind  me  in  one  town,  my  chain  in  another;  a 
ring  here,  my  dress  suit  there  ;  a  writing-case  I 
droppe'd  at  this  place,  and  a  pencil-case  at  that. 
And  so  things  went  on — or,  rather,  off — till  the 
beginning  of  May,  when  this  letter,  the  last  of  the 
series,  was  written  : 


l68  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

"DEAR  JIM:  Hurrah!  I've  struck  oil  at  last. 
I  think  it  was  time  I  did  after  what  I've  gone 
through.  I  was  afraid  the  profession  would  have 
to  do  without  me,  but  it's  all  safe  now.  I'm  in 
a  new  company — joined  last  Saturday,  and  we're 
doing  splendidly.  Manager  is  a  magnificent 
fellow,  and  a  good  man  of  business.  He  under- 
stands how  to  make  the  donkey  go.  He  adver- 
tises and  bills  right  and  left,  spares  no  expense, 
and  does  the  thing  thoroughly  well.  He's  a  jolly 
nice  fellow,  too,  and  evidently  a  man  of  intelli- 
gence, for  he  appreciates  me.  He  engaged  me 
without  my  applying  to  him  at  all,  after  seeing 
me  act  one  night  last  week,  when  he  was  getting 
his  company  together.  I  play  First  Walking 
Gent,  at  thirty-five  shillings  a  week.  He  has  been 
a  captain  in  the  army,  and  is  a  thorough  gentle- 
men. He  never  bullies  or  interferes,  and  every- 
body likes  him.  He  is  going  all  round  the  North 
of  England,  taking  all  the  big  Lancashire  and 
Yorkshire  towns,  and  then  going  to  bring  us  to 
London  for  the  winter.  He  wants  me  to  sign  an 
agreement  for  one  year  certain  at  two  pounds 
five.  I  haven't  appeared  to  be  too  anxious.  It's 
always  best  to  hang  back  a  bit  in  such  cases,  so  I 
told  him  I  would  think  it  over;  but  of  course  I 
shall  accept.  Can't  write  any  more  now.  I'm 
just  off  to  dine  with  him.  We  stop  here  three 

weeks,  and  then  go  to  .     Very  comfortable 

lodgings.     Yours, " 


MY  LAST  APPEARANCE.  169 

That  was  written  on  Tuesday.  On  Saturday 
we  came  to  the  theater  at  twelve  for  treasury. 
The  Captain  was  not  there.  He  had  gone  that 
morning  to  pay  a  visit  to  Sir  somebody  or  other, 
one  of  the  neighboring  gentry,  who  was  a  great 
friend  of  his,  and  he  had  not  yet  returned.  He 
would  be  back  by  the  evening — so  the  courteous 
acting  manager  assured  us — and  treasury  would 
take  place  after  the  performance. 

So  in  the  evening,  when  the  performance  was 
over,  we  all  assembled  on  the  stage,  and  waited. 
We  waited  about  ten  minutes,  and  then  our 
Heavy  Man,  who  had  gone  across  the  way  to  get 
a  glass  before  they  shut  up,  came  back  with  a 
scared  face  to  say  that  he'd  just  seen  the  book- 
ing clerk  from  the  station,  who  had  told  him  that 
the  "Captain"  had  left  for  London  by  an  early 
train  that  morning.  And  no  sooner  had  the 
Heavy  Man  made  this  announcement,  than  it  oc- 
curred to  the  call  boy  that  he  had  seen  the  court- 
eous acting  manager  leave  the  theater  imme- 
diately after  the  play  had  begun,  carrying  a  small 
black  bag. 

I  went  back  to  the  dressing-room,  gathered  my 
things  into  a  bundle,  and  came  down  again  with 
it.  The  others  were  standing  about  the  stage, 
talking  low,  with  a  weary,  listless  air.  I  passed 
through  them  without  a  word,  and  reached  the 
stage  door.  It  was  one  of  those  doors  that  shut 
with  a  spring.  I  pulled  it  open,  and  held  it  back 


17°  ON  THE  STAGE— AND  OFF. 

with  my  foot,  while  I  stood  there  on  the  thresh- 
old for  a  moment,  looking  out  at  the  night. 
Then  I  turned  my  coat  collar  up,  and  stepped 
into  the  street :  the  stage  door  closed  behind 
me  with  a  bang  and  a  click,  and  I  have  never 
opened  another  one  since. 


THE   END. 


A  LIST  OF  BOOKS  IN 

GENERAL     LITERATURE 

PUBLISHED  BY 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO.,  NEW  YORK. 


Messrs.  Henry  Holt  <K  Co.'s  Descriptive  Catalogue 
of  Educational  Works  ivill  be  sent  on  application. 


All  books  in  this  list  are  bound  in   cloth,   lettered,   unless  otherwise  ex- 
pressed.    J^itles  followed  by  L.  ff.  S.  are  in  the  Leisure  Hour 
Series ;  by  L.  M.  S.  in  the  Leisure  Moment  Series. 


About,  Edmund. 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BROKEN  EAR. 

Translated    from     the    French. 

i6mo,  L.  H.  S.,  $1.00. 
THE  NOTARY'S  NOSE.    Translated 

from  the  French.     i6mo,  L.  H. 

S.,  $1.00. 

Adams,  Chas.  F.,  Jr.,  and 
Henry. 

CHAPTERS  OF  ERIE,  AND  OTHER 

ESSAYS.     i2mo,  $1.75. 

Contents  : — A  Chapter  of  Erie. — 
New  York  Gold  Conspiracy. — An 
Erie  Raid. — Captaine  John  Smith. 
— The  Bank  of  England  Restric- 
tion.— British  Finances  in  1816. — 
The  Legal  Tender  Act  by  F.  A. 
Walker  and  Henry  Adams. — The 
Railroad  System : — I.  The  Era 
of  Change. — II.  Transportation 
Tax. — III.  Railroad  Consolida- 
tion.—IV.  Stock  Watering.— V. 
The  Government  and  the  Rail- 
road Corporations. 

Adams,  Prof.  C.  K. 

DEMOCRACY  AND  MONARCHY  IN 
FRANCE.  From  the  Inception 
of  the  Great  Revolution  to  the 
Overthrow  of  the  Second  Empire. 
Large  i2mo,  $2.50. 


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"  Their  feeling  is  of  that  robust  kind  which  quickens  the 
sympathies  without  enervating  them,  their  humor  is  playful  and 
kindly  like  the  strong  and  deep  natures  from  which  it  is  drawn, 
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"  Few  living  novelists  can  sketch  scenes  and  give  conversa- 
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ments in  one  man's  own  soul.  Few  can  enter  so  absorbedly 
into  the  whirl  of  a  delirious  passion.  The  reader  will  find  him- 
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"  The  reader  lives  among  them  (the  characters)  as  he  does 
among  his  acquaintances,  and  may  plead  each  one's  case  as 
plausibly  to  his  own  judgment  as  he  can  those  of  the  men 
whose  mixed  motives  and  actions  he  sees  around  him.  In 
other  words,  these  characters  live,  they  are  men  and  women, 
and  the  whole  mystery  of  humanity  is  upon  each  of  them. 
Has  no  superior  in  German  romance  for  its  enthusiastic  and 
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which  its  leading  characters  are  invested." — New  York  Even- 
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